OPINIONS  OP  THE  PRESS. 

••I'"  .....  -  Mini  K<-a\-.  hy  G.   IHckinson.     Tliis   i-  a  very  pretty  \<>lmne.  with 

content-  ni  varied  character  and  interest.    ......    .    .    The  author'.- 

n\vn  poems  have  a  pure  and  harmonious  ri;,;;.    ana  in  making  hia  selection* 

for  ex:iiM|>le  ;!iul  ill  11-1  rar  inn  he  lias  yi  \  en  u.-the  lie-!  work  of  (lie  hcsi  work 
ers.  It  is.  however,  a«  an  essayist  that  he  shows  the  best,  ami  his  thought 
ful,  CHI  11  1  1  n  -he  MS  i\  -i  .....  '  •  ij  il  ui  tii  'iis  in  tli  is  line  a  re  .very  i  list  met  ive  and  enter 
taining.  The  viiliini...  an  A  Whole,  i8  pure  and  elevated  intone,  and  perfect 
in  detail."  Hn.-t/ini  J'axt. 

"It  is  a  well  printed  volume  »r_"_'.,  pa  yes.  in  which  the  reader  will  find  good 
and  pleasant  poem.  \\  '  can  quote  only  one  or  t\vo  extra.  -is  ...... 

There  is  a  poem  of  ,20  stanzas  on  Meraprlei  of  chiidliooii  \\hich  ue  should 
like  to  quote,  il  our  space  allowed." 

Tin-  /><t//i/   >/,//,    }\'iirr,  .-ili-r,   Mii.t.i. 

"Messrs.  A.  \Yillifim-   ,x  t  'o..  ISoston.   have  issued  a    very    u.  -Iconic    volume 

of  Poems  and  Essays.  1>>   <\.  IMokinson.    Th«  selections  are  ot  course   hm  a 

Mart   of  the  many  which    I  lie  author   has    written  .........     Th«- 

,'-arly  |io.-nis  were  Written  i.:  hi.-  youny  days,   some  of  them  he!  ore   he  was  six- 

•  e,irs  old.     The  [  ran.-  hit  ions  from  the  (iernian  u  ill  he  read  with  ini 

.-..ilarly  hy  thos.-  \\  1m  are  familiar  with  the  oi-i^inals.     'J'he  essay  on  lial- 

lad-l'oetry.  with  its  lium.  .rous  and  alii  quotations,   \nlladd   lo   the    value    ol 

the  volume."  *itl<in   J.'i  fjtxt*  r. 

"The  two  essays,  Minstrels  _and  Minstrelsy  of  the  Middle  A^esand  Karly 
Ballad-l'iietry,  will  !>.-  r>::nl  with  interest  hy  lovers  of  old  Kn^lisli  literature. 
Many  <>f  tlie  poems  ha  VO.  already  seen  the  li^ht  in  ilitferent  jimrnals.  and  rep 
resent  not  only  the  .liftei-ent  Stages  "!  poetic  .l.-\  elopmeni  through  which 

the  writer  has  passed,  bm    also  the  various,  moods  Of  hi-  poetic  experience," 

Hiixtnii    Tr<ni.«-riii1. 

••The  volume  inehid.  ~  a  numher  of  what  the  author  terms  earl\  or  juvenile 
poems,  which  posses*  mnt-uai  interest  as  sueli  and  show  the  talent  ot  the 
writer  at  an  early  p-ri.  ..1.  The  poem  dedi.  -ate,  1  u.  Henry  \\".  l.on^fellou  . 
on  the  occasion  ot  'hi-  ;..  LD  birthday,  is  particularly  tine.  K  was  scarcely  a 
month  alter  it  traa  written  that  the^n-ai  poet  passed  away  and  the  verse  bjj 
singularly  appropriate.  Accompanying  the  poems  are  several  e»ay.- 

bearing  directly    up'.n  i  le-  -uh.jei-t    of  the  verses.     The   descriol  ion    of  Kar'l\ 

Iiallad  L'oetrj   of  aill>rfiil  Nations,   shows  deep  research  and   tlie   many  a;.- 

pcopriati   «'\  tracts  \\  ii  h  \\  liich  the  text  is  illustrated  show  that  the.  author  lias 

:.u.i  c.-.r.'i  ally.      Asa  whole  the  work  shows  pain-taking  cai-e. 

and  \\iil  give  plesisuretomany  a  reader  who  appreciates  works  ol  character 
in  these  times  whi  IS  the  most  careless  of  all  modern  professions." 

' 


••Ml-.  \)\'-\  ':ahle  toilie  anthor   and  will  he    plea.-in^ 

n,,l  iinlv  ti)  many  readers,     iioodsentinient.    in  fair  versili- 

;.  i-  expi-es-ed  in  all  I  lie  poem-,   \\hile  a   praif.e\\'orthv  a  in  hi  lion  to  court 

er  acquaintance  «Hh  the  -Vluse  is  every  where  manifest  ....... 

Tli..  essay  on    Minstrels  and  Minstrelsy  of   the   Middle   Aye-   contains  u  .....  1 
reading."  ]ii>xtnii   Siimlni/    (,!,,!„. 

••This  volume  open-    «ilh    an   eiuht-pa^e  odi  .....  the  death  of  (  iarliehl.  evi- 

y  written  when  at  the  death  of  the  chief,  strong  expressions  u  ere  common. 

historical  souvenir,  this  piece  is  not  \\ithout\alue.     There  follows  it, 

.,.,    ('-;iv    on    Minstrel*    :i',l     \Iin-l  r.'lsy    of  the   Middle    .\ire-,   that    is    well 

\\,,rlh\    of    prrn-alan.l    -ludy  ..........     Then    comes  another 

excellent  e--:i\  oil  el-1'oetry  ol  dill'erciit   Nations.'      After  a  poem 

•  \  i.-torical    note-  oti  Kenilworth,  come   some  capital  poems    which    have 

ired  in  the    lln-'on     I,  -iveller.  hut   are  pleasant    to  see    ayain.      A    larfre 

number  o|   luhcrpoen.-    !o'!o\v,  of  varying  merits.  Inn  alioundinu    in  stirring 

.,il  full    of  worthy  suggestions.      In  many    of  them    one    reads    lie- 

illie   lines     :  i   may  or  may  not  haxeheen  in  i  lie  poet's  mind, 

hut  which  render  ;!.;-  \  '    line  a  pleasant   and  n-"ful  one  io  have  at  hand." 

'I'll,       I'lt.l'    J'll/IH/i,    f.nl'T/l,     ,V".~.V. 

"Poems  and  fcssay*.    hv<;.  Dickinson,    is  another  hid  for  the   poet's  fame. 

and  the  author  shou  -  large  poetic  feeling  and.  skill  in  -verse.    The  siih.jcct> 

are  handled  in  a  ple;u-y  nt  ana  interesting  way,  and   the  themes   have    music 

:\..!!-.     The  translations  are  very  gqpd  ......... 

oticii  a  poetic  nature  can  put  forth  more  power  in  prose  than  inverse 
—at  least  here  is  an  illn-iralion.  for  the  -t  vie  is  clear,  kirc.ihle  and  full  of 
interest."  llo.<t»ii  CU.H  ii'in  irriilt/i. 


"To  jud.i;e  from  tie- 
>!'  art  jnust  n 


h,,ok  it? 


sale  will  he  laryv.  as  every  love 

'/'/n      '  'nllljtflil/illlit. 


UBRARY 

ltlVERS't*  4* 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


POEMS  AND  ESSAYS: 


INCLUDING 


THE    FALLEN    CHIEF,    THE    MINSTREL'S    CURSE, 

KENILWORTH,  TRIBUTES  TO  HOLMES  AND 

LONGFELLOW,   BOOTH   AS   HAMLET, 

THE   WIZARD'S    GRAVE. 


EARLY  AND  JUVENILE  POEMS,  AND  TRANSLATIONS 
FROM  THE  GERMAN; 


WITH   SOME  ACCOUNT   OF 

ana  gpinsttelty  of  tlje 


EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY  OF  DIFFERENT 
NATIONS. 

BY 

GIDEON   DICKINSON. 

"It  is  the  voice  of  years  that  are  gone; 
They  roll  before  me  with  all  their  deeds." 

"Sic  bolbere 


BOSTON : 

A.    WILLIAMS    AND    COMPANY, 

©It)  Corner  Bookstore. 

1883. 


COPYRIGHT,  1883, 
BY  GIDEON  DICKINSON. 


All  rights  reserved. 


PRESS   OP   RAND,  AVERT,  AND   COMPANY, 
BOSTON. 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  poems  are  a  part  of  many  which  have 
been  composed  by  the  author,  during  his  hours  of  leisure, 
while  practicing  an  uncongenial  and  perplexing  profes 
sion.  Some  of  them  were  called  forth  by  passing  events 
of  the  times;  while  others  are  the  mere  offspring  of  his 
own  fancy  in  hours  of  meditation.  The  longer  ones  are, 
with  few  exceptions,  of  comparatively  recent  composition; 
but  to  them  are  added  a  few  which  were  composed  in  the 
early  years  of  the  author's  life,  — from  his  sixteenth  year 
upward,  —  and  which  may  therefore  be  termed  "  early  " 
and  "juvenile"  poems.  In  selecting  from  his  manu 
scripts  those  which  were  to  be  given  to  the  public  in  this 
little  volume,  the  author  was  not  always  moved  by  the 
belief  that  the  ones  selected  were  better,  or  possessed 
more  merit,  than  others  which  might  be  given  in  their 
places.  But,  merely,  he  chooses  to  publish  these  at  the 
present  time,  and  to  withhold  others,  which  may  perhaps 
possess  more  literary  merit,  from  the  fact  that  they  con 
tain  allusions  to  persons  yet  living,  which  it  would  be 


4  PREFACE. 

more  proper  to  make  public  after  they  cease  to  be  actors 
on  the  world's  stage.  The  author  is  by  no  means  blind 
to  the  imperfections  of  these  trifles,  and  especially  is  he 
aware  of  the  defects  of  the  ones  composed  in  early  youth ; 
and  he  could  easily  give  to  them  now  a  better  dress  and 
more  finished  appearance :  but  that  is  what  he  least 
wishes  to  do ;  for  then  they  would  cease  to  be  the  famil 
iar  children  and  companions  of  his  early  years.1  In  their 
present  form  they  bring  back  ever  to  his  mind  the  mem 
ory  of  other  days  and  years  now  passed  and  gone  for 
ever,  repeopling  them  with  dear  delightful  friends,  now 
changed  or  far  away,  or  —  sadder  still  —  too  often  re- 
peopling  them  with  dear,  dear  friends  now  dead  and 
gone  for  ever.  Therefore  he  chooses  to  see  such  early 
poems  in  the  old  familiar  dress  they  always  wore;  for,  to 
him,  — 

"  A  stone  unturned 

Is  sweeter  than  a  strange  or  altered  face; 

A  tree  that  flings  its  shadow  as  of  yore 

Will  make  the  blood  stir,  sometimes,  when  the  words 

Of  a  long-looked-for  lip  fall  icy  cold." 


1  In  regard  to  the  poems  written  in  boyhood  and  early  youth,  I  could 
say  with  Wordsworth  on  a  similar  occasion,  that  "it  would  be  easy 
to  amend  them  now  both  as  to  sentiment  and  expression ; "  but,  in  the 
case  of  early  and  juvenile  poems,  such  emendations  are  always  made 
"at  the  risk  of  injuring  those  characteristic  features  which,  after  all, 
will  be  regarded  as  the  principal  recommendation  of  all  juvenile  poems." 


PREFACE.  5 

If  it  shall  be  asked,  "  "Why  publish  them  at  all?"  the 
author  will  answer,  that,  being  inclined  to  studious  habits 
and  somewhat  given  to  meditation,  he  could  not  always 
resist  the  temptation  of  putting  his  thoughts  into  written 
form;  and,  such  being  the  case,  they  have  accumulated  to 
such  an  extent  that  it  has  now  become  necessary  to  make 
some  disposition  of  them;  and  so,  with  the  distinguished 
author  of  "  A  Fable  for  Critics,"  he  will  say,  that  — 

"  These  trifles,  composed  to  please  only  himself 
And  his  own  private  fancy,  were  laid  on  the  shelf, 
Till  some  friends,  who  had  seen  them,  induced  him,  by 

dint 

Of  saying  they  liked  them,  to  put  them  in  print; 
That  is,  having  come  to  that  very  conclusion, 
He  consulted  them  when  it  could  make  no  confusion." 


And,  if  these  trifles  shall  meet  with  the  same  kind  con 
sideration  which  has  been  accorded  to  some  already  given 
to  the  public,  the  author  will  soon  publish  another  volume, 
containing  a  series  of  poems  upon  Scottish  subjects,  — 
poems  descriptive  of  Scottish  scenes,  personages,  and 
events,  — which  were  composed  during  a  journey  through 
some  of  the  most  picturesque  portions  of  that  land  of 
chivalry,  romance,  and  song,  where  the  pilgrim  ever  walks 
upon  enchanted  ground,  —  a  land  made  deeply  interesting 


6  PREFACE. 

by  deeds  of  historic  fame,  and  filled  with  decaying  ruins 
of  moldering  palaces  and  crumbling  towers,  time-worn 
cathedrals,  and  castles  in  decay. 

G.  D. 

December,  1882. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

L'ENVOi 10 

BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  FALLEN  CHIEF     .  11 

THE  FALLEN  CHIEF 14 

MINSTRELS  AND  MINSTRELSY  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES       .  22 

THE  MINSTREL'S  CURSE.    (From  the  German)      .        .  27 

MIGNON 34 

MIGNON.    (From  the  German) 36 

THE  MAIDEN'S  LAMENT.    (From  the  German)  ...  38 

MAN.    (From  the  German) 40 

OF  Us  THERE  ARE  SEVEN.    (From  the  German)      .        .  43 

THE  RICHEST  PRINCE.    (From  the  German) ...  47 

THE  Two  LITTLE  WINDOWS.    (From  the  German) .        .  49 

CRADLE  SONG.    (From  the  German)       ....  51 

THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA.    (From  the  German)       .        .  53 

THE  MINSTREL.    (From  the  German)     ....  55 

I  THINK  OF  THEE.    (From  the  German)     ....  58 

THE  CASTLE  OF  BONCOURT.    (From  the  German)        .  60 

EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY  OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS    .        .  63 
HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION  TO  THE   POEM   OF   KENIL- 

WORTH 105 

KENILWORTH               109 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

APPENDIX  TO  THE  POEM  OF  KENILWORTH        .        .        .  117 

THE  WIZARD'S  GRAVE 121 

To  EDWIN  BOOTH  AS  HAMLET 126 

TRIBUTE  TO  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES        .        .        .  132 

OLIVER  AND  JAMES 136 

THE  GREEN,  THE  GOLD  CORN,  AND  THE  SHEAVES      .  140 

THE  FADED  FLOWER 143 

THESE  BUDS  AND  FLOWERS 146 

LITTLE  MAIDEN  SWEET  AND  FAIR 148 

TIME'S  LESSON 151 

THERE  WAS  A  TIME 153 

THE  SUN  OF  HOPE 155 

METEMPSYCHOSIS 158 

THAT  SULTRY  FOURTH  OF  JULY 161 

HEAVEN'S  ARTILLERY,  OR  WAR  AND  PEACE    .        .        .  163 

MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 167 

THE  HEART  THAT  IN  SILENCE  is  BREAKING      .        .        .  173 

TO   MlSS   ON   RECEIVING   HER  PICTURE      .            .            .  177 

STANZAS.    To  Miss  180 

ETHEL  GRAY 181 

THE  POWER  OF  SONG 184 

THE  FRIARS  GRAY 185 

THE  MORNING  WALK 187 

THE  EVENING  WALK 189 

THE  BROKEN  Vow 191 

SONG:   I'LL  DREAM  OF  THEE 193 

STAKZAS.    To  —             195 

MY  BARK  ROCKS  IN  THE  BAY  BELOW    ....  198 

MUSINGS   .                                                                             .  201 


CONTENTS.  9 

PAGE 
To  ANNA,  WITH  A  COPY  OF  LONGFELLOW'S  "VOICES  OF 

THE  NIGHT" 203 

THE  APOLOGY 205 

GIVE  ME  BACK  MY  BREAKING  HEART  ....  207 

To  MARY,  DEPARTED 210 

OH,  ASK  ME  NOT  WHEN  I  AM  SAD 213 

FAREWELL  TO  MY  LITTLE  SCHOOLMATE  .  .  .  215 

THE  SUMMER  DAYS  OF  '81 217 

To  HENRY  "W.  LONGFELLOW  ON  HIS  SEVENTY-FIFTH 

BIRTHDAY 219 

WHEN  THE  POET  DIES  .  .  .  223 


L  ENVOI. 

Child  of  my  brain  and  offspring  of  the  heart, 
The  fleeting  hours  have  rolled  o'er  thee  and  me, 
Till  now  the  hour  has  come  when  we  must  part ; 
And  thou  alone  shalt  dare  the  world's  dark  sea, 
While  I  must  vainly  wait  and  watch  for  thee, 
Fearing  lest  evil  tidings  from  thee  come : 
For  well  I  know  the  dangers  of  that  sea 
Where  thou,  unaided,  art  compelled  to  roam, 
Seeking,  perchance  in  vain,  for  sympathy  and  home. 

But  go  thou  forth  into  the  heartless  world, 
And  meet  its  scorn  and  hatred  with  a  smile ; 
For  scorn  and  hatred  at  thee  shall  be  hurled, 
Yet  bear  thee  bravely  on  thy  course  the  while  ; 
And,  if  with  flattering  speech  some  should  beguile, 
Prove  well  their  fair  words  ere  thou  deeni'st  them  true  , 
For  hatred  often  lurks  beneath  a  smile, 
And  poisoned  fruits  are  fairest  to  the  view  : 
But,  trusting  thee  to  Fate,  I  bid  thee  now  adieu. 


POEMS  AND  ESSAYS. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION   TO   THE 
FALLEN   CHIEF. 

JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD  was  the  twentieth  President 
of  the  United  States.1  He  was  born  in  the  little  town  of 
Orange,  Ohio,  on  the  19th  of  November,  1831.  He  suf 
fered,  in  his  youth,  all  the  privations  and  hardships  of 
Western  pioneer  life.  Left  an  orphan  in  earliest  life,  he 
succeeded,  by  his  own  efforts,  in  obtaining  a  collegiate 
education;  and  became,  afterwards,  first  a  teacher  of 
Latin  and  Greek,  and  then  a  college  president.  He  also 
studied  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar.  When  the 
civil  war  broke  out,  he  entered  the  Union  army  as  colo 
nel  of  the  42d  Ohio  Volunteers,  and  was  ordered  to  the 
front  in  December,  1861.  In  the  army  he  was  distin 
guished  as  a  brave  and  very  competent  officer.  His  mili 
tary  record  was  a  brilliant  one.  He  took  part  in  the 
great  battles  of  Shiloh  and  Chickamauga,  and  was  made 

1  He  was  the  seventeenth  President,  counting  only  those  persons 
who  were  regularly  chosen  to  the  office  of  President;  but  three  former 
Vice-Presidents  became  Presidents  by  reason  of  the  death  of  the  Presi 
dents  of  their  times. 

11 


12  BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION   TO 

a  major-general  of  volunteers  "for  gallant  and  merito 
rious  services  "  in  the  last-named  battle. 

He  afterwards  served  several  years  in  the  Congress  of 
the  United  States  as  a  member  from  the  State  of  Ohio. 
And,  at  the  Republican  National  Convention  which  met 
at  Chicago  in  June,  1880,  General  Garfield  \vas  chosen, 
after  the  convention  had  been  sitting  for  ten  days,  as  the 
candidate  of  the  party  for  the  presidency.  At  the  na 
tional  election,  November,  1880,  he  -was  elected  by  a 
handsome  majority  to  the  presidency  of  the  United  States. 
In  the  spring  of  1881  he  left  his  happy  home  in  Mentor, 
Ohio,  to  go  on  to  Washington  and  assume  the  duties 
of  President,  and  took  the  oath  of  office  and  was  in 
augurated  on  Friday,  the  4th  of  March,  1881,  with 
ceremonies  of  unusual  magnificence.  But,  alas!  that 
happy  home  in  dear  old  Mentor,  where  he  had  passed 
some  of  the  happiest  years  of  his  life,  surrounded  by  his 
mother,  wife,  and  loving  children, — that  happy  home 
which  he  had  so  recently  left  with  regret  and  a  heavy 
heart,  —  that  happy  home  he  was  doomed  never  again  to 
revisit  in  life;  for,  on  the  2d  of  July  following,  while 
passing  through  the  railroad  depot  in  Washington,  to 
take  the  cars  with  the  intention  of  making  a  trip  north 
ward  for  rest  and  recreation,  he  was  shot  down  from 
behind,  and  mortally  wounded,  by  a  miserable  assassin, 
—  one  Guiteau,  —  a  disappointed  and  crack-brained  poli 
tician,  who  confessed  to  have  been  dogging  him  for  weeks 
with  the  intention  of  killing  him.  The  assassin  was 
immediately  arrested,  and  imprisoned  to  suffer  the  pen 
alty  of  his  crime.  The  wounded  President  was  carefully 
taken  up,  and  tenderly  cared  for;  and  from  that  fatal  2d 
of  July,  until  the  nineteenth  day  of  September,  he  lin- 


THE  FALLEN   CHIEF.  13 

gered  on  through  eighty  long  and  heart-rending  days  of 
suffering,  pain,  and  sorrow,  where  faint  rays  of  hope  often 
alternated  with  shadows  of  despair,  till  exhausted  nature 
at  length  gave  out;  and,  surrounded  by  his  anxious,  weep 
ing  wife  and  children,  he  calmly  breathed  his  last,  and 
was  at  rest ;  and  a  united  nation,  bowed  down  in 
sorrow,  mourned  his  loss  with  quivering  lips  and  floods 
of  burning  tears. 


THE  FALLEN   CHIEF. 

"  After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well ; 
Treason  has  done  his  worst :  nor  steel,  nor  poison 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing, 
Can  touch  him  further !  " 

Macbeth,  Act  iii.  Scene  2. 

O  GOD,  behold  a  prostrate  State  ! l 

O  Christ,  incline  thy  gracious  ear  ! 
O  God,  avert  such  dreadful  fate  ! 

O  Christ,  in  mercy,  wilt  thou  hear? 
O  God,  a  nation  bends  the  knee  ! 

O  Christ,  behold  a  nation's  grief! 
O  God,  a  nation  prays  to  thee  ! 

O  Father!  Saviour  !  spare  our  Chief ! 

Such,  such  the  praj'er,  the  suppliant  cry, 

Which  a  united  nation  gave  : 
Their  mingled  voices,  through  the  sky, 

Pra3*ed  God  their  honored  Chief  to  save. 

1  While  President  Garfield  was  slowly  hut  surely  sinking  from  the 
effects  of  his  mortal  wound,  a  day  of  public  fasting  and  prayer  was 
appointed  to  be  held,  in  which  both  churches  and  people  heartily  joined 
in  prayers  to  God  for  his  recovery.  All  places  of  business  were  closed; 
all  labor  suspended  for  the  day,  which  was  universally  and  solemnly 
observed. 

14 


THE  FALLEN  CHIEF.  15 

A  nation's  women  poured  their  tears  — 
Their  burning  tears  —  in  sight  of  Heaven, 

And  sighed  their  tender,  soul-felt  prayers, 
That  life  to  him  might  yet  be  given. 

But  not  a  nation's  burning  tears 

Could  change  the  fixed  decrees  of  Heaven, 
And  to  a  nation's  mingled  prayers 

No  answer  from  on  high  was  given. 
Weak  man,  rejoice  !  God's  ways  are  sure  : 

Effect  shall  ever  follow  cause  ; 
Millions  of  worlds  all  rest  secure 

Through  his  unchanged,  unchanging  laws. 

Then  why  repine  at  what  he  sends  ? 

Why  pray  to  change  his  fixed  decree  ? 
Whate'er  is  best  for  noble  ends, 

God,  and  God  only,  can  foresee  ! 
'Tis  true,  our  noble,  honored  Chief 

By  an  assassin's  hand  lies  low  ; 
'Tis  true,  our  hearts  are  bowed  with  grief: 

But  God  —  for  good  —  decreed  it  so. 

He  died  with  honor,  and  his  bed 
Is  with  the  noble,  sainted  dead, 
And  the  world's  history  shall  enshrine 
His  noble  deeds  and  death  sublime. 
He  died  —  but  wrote  his  shining  name 
The  highest  on  the  scroll  of  fame, 


16  THE   FALLEN   CHIEF. 

And  ever  there  his  name  shall  shine 
A  beacon-light  through  coming  time. 

A  hundred  bards  have  sung  his  fame,  — 

Bards  of  renown  and  noble  name ; 

The  gray-haired  bards,  before  whose  eyes 

The  visioned  future  open  lies  ; 

And  infant  bards,  whose  souls  of  fire 

Are  toying  with  the  unproved  l}Tre. 

The}T  all  have  brought  —  both  young  and  old  - 

Their  harp's  rich  treasures,  —  songs  of  gold  ; 

And  shall  I  —  humblest  of  the  throng  — 

Forget  to  weave  a  requiem  song? 

Shall  I  sit  sorrowing  in  gloom, 

Nor  weave  one  garland  for  his  tomb  ? 

No  !  let  my  harp  her  slumbers  break, 

And  let  poetic  thought  awake  ! 

Let  my  hand  wake  each  tuneful  string 

While  I  my  humble  tribute  bring,  — 

A  tribute  for  our  noble  Chief, 

And  her  whose  heart  is  bowed  in  grief,  — 

A  chaplet  for  our  Chiefs  dark  tomb, 

And  her  whose  soul  is  wrapped  in  gloom. 

The  autumn  winds,  hoarse,  loud,  and  strong. 
Shall  sing  his  solemn  requiem  song  ; 
The  drifting  snows,  in  winter  gloom, 
Shall  spread  their  mantle  o'er  his  tomb  ; 


THE  FALLEN   CHIEF.  17 

But  never  shall  his  palsied  ear 
The  solemn  winds  of  autumn  hear, 
And  never  shall  he  wake  to  know 
The  chill  of  winter's  drifted  snow, 
And  never  can  he  feel  the  sting 
That  Malice'  poisoned  words  can  bring. 

"  After  life's  fitful  fever,  he 

Sleeps  well ' '  in  calm  tranquillity  ; 

"  Treason  has  done  his  worst,"  and  now 

No  care  can  cloud  his  noble  brow ; 

"  Malice  domestic  "  ne'er  can  come 

To  sting  him  in  his  happy  home  ; 

Nor  "  foreign  levy,"  —  on  strange  shore,  — 

"  Nor  steel,  nor  poison,  touch  him  "  more. 

He  sleeps  in  peace  ;  and  we  must  all 

Deplore  his  sad,  untimely  fall. 

But,  bowed  with  grief,  we  sajr,  with  pride, 
A  hero  lived  !  a  martyr  died  ! 
For  his  loved  countr}*  Garfield  gave 
His  life,  and  filled  a  mart}T's  grave  ; 
And  Freedom's  goddess,  free  from  stain, 
Now  consecrates  his  noble  name. 
His  body  sleeps  beneath  the  sod  ; 
His  soul,  in  peace,  rests  with  his  God. 

For  what  he  was  and  what  he  dared, 
Remember  him  for  a}'e  ; 


18  THE   FALLEN   CHIEF. 

And  that  his  memor}-  be  spared, 
We  evermore  will  pray. 

Let  a  united  country  bend, 
And  give  him  grateful  tear  ; 

Let  party  strife  for  ever  end  ; 
Let  concord  re-appear ! 

No  North,  no  South,  no  East,  no  West 

He  died  alike  for  all ! 
United,  they  are  strong  and  blest ; 

Divided,  they  would  fall. 

Let  politicians  cease  their  strife, 
Their  vulture-greed  forego : 

Their  shameless  quarrels  cost  his  life,  — 
His,  and  poor  Lincoln's,  too. 

Oh,  let  all  discord  in  the  State 

For  ever  buried  be  ! 
Let  love  fraternal,  free  from  hate, 

Our  future  motto  be. 

The  world  will  blush  for  shame  to  see, 
And  Freedom's  sun  go  down, 

If  Freedom's  price  so  oft  must  be 
A  martyr's  bloody  crown  ! 


THE  FALLEN   CHIEF.  19 

Give  we  our  pity  now  to  those 

Whose  cup  is  filled  with  earthly  woes  : 

His  aged  mother,  bowed  with  }'ears,  — 

What  words  can  dry  her  burning  tears  ? 

She,  who  so  fondly  doted  on 

Her  lost  and  murdered  darling  son,  — 

What  words  can  paint  the  wretched  woe 

That  her  last,  saddened  years  must  know  ? 

Weighed  down  with  years,  and  bowed  with  grief, 

E'en  death  to  her  would  bring  relief; 

And  she  will  pray  full  soon  to  meet 

Her  dear  lost  son  at  Jesus'  feet. 

She  loved,  as  only  mothers  love  : 

With  him  she  soon  shall  meet  above. 

But  his  poor  widowed  wife  !  what  eye 
Can  view  her  grief,  and  still  be  dry  ? 
Her  bursting  heart,  ah  !  who  can  weigh 

o  /  o 

Its  anguish  when  he  passed  away  ? 
When,  kneeling  by  his  lifeless  form, 
To  her  caress  came  no  return  : 
Then  joy  expired,  and  hope  sank  low, 
And  her  sad  soul  was  wrapped  in  woe  ; 
And,  ever  now,  in  darkened  gloom 
She  dwells,  as  in  a  living  tomb. 
To  her,  oh  !  how  can  minstrel  sing? 
To  her,  what  comfort  can  he  bring? 
I  strike  the  chords  of  hope,  and,  lo  ! 
My  wailing  harp  gives  notes  of  woe  ! 


20  THE  FALLEN   CHIEF. 

Her  sole  remaining  hope  to  rear 
His  darling  children,  loved  and  dear, 
And  clasp  them  to  a  mother's  heart, 
Feeling  that  they  of  him  are  part : 
Back  in  their  dear  old  Mentor  home, 
What  feelings  to  their  souls  must  come, 
"When  they  at  eve  are  gathered  there, 
And  gaze  upon  his  vacant  chair  !  1 
And  then,  perchance,  his  infant's  tongue 
Will  stammer,  "  When  will  papa  come?  " 
And  quivering  lips  give  faint  reply, 
While  burning  tears  fill  every  eye  ; 
And  one  —  "  his  loved  and  petted  child," 
His  "  Mollie  dear  "  —  with  grief  is  wild  ! 2 
And,  oh  !  how  many  hearts  draw  nigh 
To  theirs  in  human  s}'mpathy  ! 

The  air  is  filled  with  mournful  lamentation 

For  our  great  Chieftain's  fall ! 
The  heartfelt  tribute  of  a  mighty  nation, 
And  s3-mpathy  from  all ! 

1  After  the  death  of  President  Garfield,  his  wife  and  children  re 
turned  to  their  home  in  Mentor,  Ohio,  which  remained  just  as  the}'  left  it 
a  few  months  before,  when  they  went  to  reside  at  Washington.  Their 
feelings  at  the  sight  of  each  familiar  object  in  their  once  happy  home  — 
now  made  desolate  by  the  loss  of  that  dear  husband  and  father  — may 
perhaps  be  imagined,  but  can  never  be  described. 

*  President  Garfield  left  five  living  children,  —  four  sons,  and  one  only 
daughter,  Mary,  who,  as  such,  was  his  petted  child.  She  was  fourteen 
years  old  at  his  death.  He  called  her  by  the  pet  name  of  "  Mollie."  She 
was  deeply  affected  by  his  sickness  and  sufferings,  and  overwhelmed 
with  grief  at  his  untimely  death. 


THE  FALLEN   CHIEF.  21 

From  far-off  lands,  across  the  sobbing  ocean, 

Comes  many  a  kindly  word  : 
The  heart  of  England's  Queen,  with  soft  emotion 

And  sympathy,  is  stirred.1 

She  sends  kind  greeting  to  a  sister  woman, 

Although  to  her  unknown, 
Showing  that  woman's  heart  is  very  human, 

Though  mounted  on  a  throne. 

Oh,  may  it  comfort  their  unbounded  sorrow, 

And  dr}-  their  tear-stained  e}'es  ! 
The  prostrate  soul  from  sympathy  will  borrow, 

At  times,  new  strength  to  rise. 

The  world  is  full  of  bleeding  hearts,  —  and  broken  ; 

Some  bleed  and  heal  again  ; 
While  some  live  on,  and  give  no  outward  token  • 

Of  their  undying  pain. 

Not  by  the  orphan's  God  are  they  unheeded  : 

He  heeds  each  sparrow's  fall ; 
The  "  balm  in  Gilead,"  when  most  sorely  needed, 

He  sendeth  unto  all. 

1  President  Garfield's  sufferings  and  death  elicited  many  kind  expres 
sions  of  sympathy  and  regret  from  the  governments  and  crowned  heads 
of  the  Old  World;  and  Queen  Victoria  sent  more  than  one  letter  to  Mrs. 
Gariield,  expressing,  in  the  kindest  manner,  her  sympathy  and  condo 
lence. 


MIXSTRELS  AND  MINSTRELSY  OF  THE 
MIDDLE  AGES. 

THE  fine  old  German  ballad,  "  The  Minstrel's  Curse," 
presents  to  the  imagination  a  vivid  picture  of  customs, 
personages,  and  rude  events  of  the  Middle  Ages.  It  re 
counts,  in  sonorous  and  highly  poetic  language,  the  hard 
experience  which  the  wandering  minstrels  of  old  some 
times  met  with,  among  the  half-barbarous  kings  and 
barons  of  the  warlike  tribes  of  Scandinavia  and  Ger 
many,  in  the  rude  and  far-off  ages  now  long  since  past 
and  gone.  And  it  tends  to  show  how  the  rapt  and  in 
spired  utterances  of  the  bard  or  scald  or  minstrel  were 
received  as  prophetic  by  the  rude,  credulous,  and  half- 
barbarous  inhabitants  of  earth  in  those  far-off,  supersti 
tious  times.  The  minstrels  (called  in  Germany  "minne 
singers")  were  a  class  of  men  peculiar  to  the  Middle 
Ages,  who  united  in  themselves  the  arts  of  poetry  and 
music;  and  they  were  accustomed  to  sing,  to  the  accom 
paniment  of  the  harp  or  lute  or  cithern,  their  own  poetic 
compositions  or  the  compositions  of  others. 

They  were  called  in  Germany  "minnesingers,"  from 
the  ancient  German  word  minne,  which  originally  de 
noted  love  and  friendship,  —  sometimes  even  divine  love; 
and  during  the  Middle  Ages  the  German  poets  expressed 
by  it  particularly  a  pure,  faithful,  and  generally  happy 
love  between  the  sexes.  Love  was  the  vital  element  of 
22 


MINSTRELS  AND   MINSTRELSY.  23 

chivalry;  and,  with  the  German  poets,  it  was  held  to  be 
something  purer,  more  ideal,  and  more  elevating,  than 
among  the  French. 

Thus  the  name  of  minnesingers  was  given  to  the  Ger 
man  lyric  poets  of  the  Middle  Ages,  because  love  was  the 
principal  subject  of  their  poems.  These  erotic  poets  (epu$, 
love)  flourished  in  Germany  for  about  two  hundred  years, 
—  that  is,  from  about  1150  to  1350,  —  and  especially 
under  the  Suabian  emperors  of  the  house  of  Hohenstau- 
fen,  whence  they  were  sometimes  called  the  Suabian 
poets,  and  because  the  Suabian  dialect  prevailed  in  their 
poems.  This  same  class  of  poets,  during  the  Middle  Ages, 
in  the  south  of  Europe,  flourished  extensively  :  and  in 
France,  Northern  Italy,  and  parts  of  Spain,  they  were 
called  trouveurs,  troveres,  or  troubadours,  from  the  French 
\vordtrouver,  — "  to  find,"  "  invent;  "  that  is,  they  were  the 
inventors,  the  makers,  because  they  exercised  the  high  and 
creative  faculty  of  embodying  sentiments  and  circum 
stances  which  had  no  existence  except  in  their  own  im 
aginations,  and,  by  their  lofty  and  original  poetic  powers 
arid  creative  faculties,  they  could  impress  the  minds  of 
their  hearers  with  scenes  and  sentiments  which  often 
owed  their  reality  of  appearance  only  to  the  high  creative 
art  of  the  minstrel-poet.  All  these  —  the  minstrels, 
minnesingers,  trouveurs,  or  troubadours  —  seem  to  have 
been  the  genuine  successors  and  inheritors  of  the  ancient 
bards.  ' '  Bard  ' '  was  the  name  that  was  given  to  the  earliest 
poets  of  Greece,  as  well  as  to  those  inspired  persons  of 
the  Celtic  tribes  of  Western  Europe,  who,  in  the  earliest 
times,  raised  the  war-cry  of  their  tribes  in  battle;  and 
who,  in  times  of  peace,  sang  the  exploits  of  their  heroes, 
and  celebrated  the  attributes  of  their  gods,  and  chronicled 


24       MINSTRELS  AND  MINSTRELSY 

the  important  events  in  the  history  of  their  tribes.  The 
ancient  bard  was  accustomed  to  deliver  his  rapt  utter 
ances  in  moments  of  high  mental  excitement,  accom 
panied  by  the  music  of  his  harp  or  other  musical  instru 
ment;  and  at  such  times  he  claimed  to  be  inspired,  and 
to  speak  and  create  things  unknown  to  ordinary  mortals: 
and  this  high  creative  faculty  gained  for  him,  in  Greece, 
the  appellation  UoiijTfc,  "a  maker,"  "creator" (of  a  poem), 
fromthe  verbTHMco,"  I  make,"  "produce,"  "create,"  "bring 
to  pass."  Strabo  tells  us  that  the  ancient  bards  were  treated 
with  a  respect  approaching  to  veneration;  and  we  learn 
from  the  histories  of  the  earliest  times,  that  among  the 
Celtic  tribes  of  Western  Europe  —  especially  in  Wales,  Ire 
land,  and  Scotland  —  the  bards  were  looked  upon  as  the 
natural  priests,  lawgivers,  and  heralds  of  the  wild  and 
barbarous  tribes  which  occupied  the  ancient  forests  of 
those  countries  in  the  earliest  times.  And  for  centuries 
they  were  the  honored  companions  and  advisers  of  kings 
and  princes,  whose  fame  they  have  outlived;  and  some  of 
their  names  are  even  celebrated  at  this  late  day.  Among 
the  earliest  of  the  Welsh  bards  are  Taliesin  and  Llywarch, 
who  flourished  during  the  sixth  century:  but  their  lan 
guage  is  now  nearly  obsolete  and  forgotten ;  and  the  last 
echoes  of  their  inspired  harps,  like  those  of  their  brother 
bards,  have  long  since  died  away  in  the  dim  distance  of 
forgotten  time ;  and  never,  in  all  the  coming  ages  of  the 
future,  shall  their  inspired  tones  be  heard  again,  except 
it  be  in  the  faint  and  feeble  echoes  from  out  the  dim  past, 
which,  in  some  rapt  moments,  reach  and  vibrate  upon 
the  intellectual  tympanum  of  the  poetic  antiquary  and 
scholar. 

To  the  bards  of  pagan  times,  the  minnesingers  and 


OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES.  25 

minstrels  of  the  Middle  Ages  seem  to  be  natural  and  gen 
uine  successors;  and  although,  in  the  light  of  dawning 
civilization  and  early  Christianity,  they  were  not  accorded 
all  the  distinctive  qualities  of  inspiration  and  veneration 
which  had  been  given  by  the  barbarians  to  the  bards 
of  pagan  times,  still  the  minstrels  of  the  Middle  Ages 
were  looked  upon  generally  as  men  of  a  superior  order, 
whose  rapt  vision  could,  in  moments  of  poetic  ecstasy, 
pierce  the  dark  curtain  that  conceals  the  future  from 
the  eyes  of  ordinary  mortals;  and  that  to  them,  in  their 
ecstatic  moments  of  mental  inspiration,  were  yielded 
glimpses  into  the  dim  future;  and  that  to  them  some 
times — 

"Coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before." 

The  minstrels  of  the  Middle  Ages  were  generally  of 
noble  descent,  and  the  honored  companions  of  kings, 
princes,  and  nobles;  and  kings  themselves  sometimes 
exercised  the  minstrel's  art.  It  is  well  known  to  all 
readers  of  history  how  Richard  I.  of  England  (Richard 
Coaur  de  Lion)  practiced  the  minstrel-art,  and  how  (when 
he  had  been  cast  into  prison  on  his  return  from  the  Holy 
Land  through  the  dominions  of  the  Duke  of  Austria)  his 
favorite  minstrel,  Blondel,  in  despair  at  his  long  absence, 
set  forth  and  wandered  from  castle  to  castle,  found  him 
at  last  by  means  of  singing,  under  the  walls  of  his  prison, 
the  minstrel-song  which  King  Richard  and  he  had  for 
merly  composed  and  sung  together.  This  happened  about 
A.D.  1193.  In  the  golden  days  of  minstrelsy  the  min 
strels  usually  dwelt  as  honored  guests  and  companions  in 
the  palaces  and  castles  of  kings  and  nobles,  where  their 
society  was  much  esteemed,  because,  by  their  songs  and 


26  MINSTRELS  AND   MINSTRELSY. 

harpings,  they  exalted  and  fostered  the  romantic  and 
chivalric  spirit  of  the  times.  But,  in  later  times,  as  the 
minstrel-art  declined  with  the  decline  of  chivalry,  the  art 
of  the  minstrel  came  to  be  practiced  by  persons  of  less 
noble  descent,  who  chanced  to  be  endowed  with  high 
poetic  talents.  And  then  the  minstrels  often  wandered 
from  castle  to  castle,  —  like  those  in  the  ballad  of  "  The 
Minstrel's  Curse,"  — where  they  were  usually  honorably 
and  kindly  received ;  and  where  they  sang  their  ininstrel- 
songs,  in  old  baronial  halls,  to  the  music  of  their  harps, 
lutes,  or  citherns,  for  the  amusement  and  diversion  of 
listening  lords  and  ladies,  by  whom  they  were  admired  in 
those  rude  times;  and  where  they  long  supplied  the  want 
of  needed  entertainment;  and  where,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
for  the  sake  of  humanity's  honor,  as  well  as  for  the  honor 
of  chivalry  and  the  profession  of  arms,  they  seldom  or 
never  received  the  harsh  and  bloody  treatment  that  those 
poor  minstrels  met  with,  in  the  ballad,  as  a  hard  meed 
for  all  their  golden  songs,  and  in  revenge  for  which  the 
gray-haired  old  minstrel,  pointing  to  the  pale,  disfigured 
countenance  of  his  murdered  son,  utters  —  in  the  rapt 
ecstasy  of  poetic  frenzy —  "  The  Minstrel's  Curse." 


THE   MINSTREL'S   CURSE. 

AN  ANCIENT  BALLAD. 

(From  the  German.) 

I. 

THERE  stood  once  in  the  olden  time  a  castle  high 

and  grand  : 
Its  lofty  towers  looked  on  the  sea,  and  far  upon  the 

land  ; 
All  round  it  fragrant  gardens  smiled,  like  garlands 

of  rare  worth, 
Wherein,  with  rainbow-splendor,  burst  full  many  a 

fountain  forth. 


n. 

In  lands  and  conquests  rich  and  proud,  a  king  of 

ancient  race 
Once  sat  upon  that  castle's  throne,  with  dark  and 

faded  face  ; 
His  musings  full  of  darksome  fears,  his  looks  were 

full  of  rage, 
His  every  word  was  like  a  curse  writ  on  a  bloody 

page. 

27 


28  THE  MINSTREL'S   CURSE. 

III. 
Once  journeyed  towards  that  castle  proud  a  noble 

minstrel-pair,  — 
The  one  with  youthful  golden  locks,  the  other  gray 

of  hair : 
The  elder  one,  with  noble  harp,  on  gallant  steed  did 

ride  ; 
The  blooming  youth,  with  active  step,  held  ever  by 

his  side. 

IV. 

The  elder  minstrel,  speaking,  said,  "  Be  ready  now, 

my  son ! 
Think   of  our  noblest  songs  of  love  ;  sound  every 

plaintive  tone  ; 
Exert  thy  soul  to  paint  the  power  of  pleasure  and 

of  pain ; 
Be   it   our  aim  to  move  with  love  the  king's  hard 

heart  again." 

v. 

Now  in  the  lofty-columned  hall  the  minstrels  ready 
stand, 

With  king  and  queen  upon  their  thrones,  and  cour 
tiers  on  each  hand,  — • 

The  king  in  threatening  splendor,  like  the  flaming 
northern  lights  ; 

The  queen  as  sweet  and  mild  as  the  fair  moon  in 
summer  nights. 


THE  MINSTREL'S   CURSE.  29 

VI. 
The  gray-haired  minstrel  swept  the  chords  :    'twas 

wonderful  to  hear 
How  richer,  ever  richer,  swelled   their  notes  upon 

the  ear ; 
Then,  with  a  heavenly  sweetness,  rose  that  younger 

minstrel's  tones, 
Joined  by  the  deep  voice  of  his  sire,  like  mournful 

spirit-moans. 

VII. 

They  sing  of  blessed  golden  times,  of  early  love  and 

spring  ; 
Of  freedom,  manly  worth   and  truth  and  holiness, 

they  sing ; 
They  sing  of  all  the  tender  thoughts  that  soothe  the 

heart  to  rest ; 
They  sing  the  high  and  noble  deeds  that  thrill  the 

human  breast. 

VIII. 

That  courtly  throng  around  the  king  forgot  all  hate 
and  scorn  ; 

The  king's  stern  warriors  bowed  the  head  to  God 
that  summer  morn  ; 

The  sweet  queen's  tender  heart  was  moved  with  sad 
ness  and  with  joy : 

She  cast  the  roses  from  her  breast  down  to  that 
minstrel-boy. 


30  THE   MINSTREL'S    CURSE. 

IX. 

"Ye  have  misled  my  people,  and  allured  my  wife's 

weak  choice," 
The  raging  king  cried  sternly  out,  with  trembling 

limbs  and  voice. 
Drawing  his  shining  sword,  he  pierced  that  younger 

minstrel's  breast : 
Forth    springs    the    blood-stream,    and   his   golden 

songs  are  hushed  to  rest. 

x. 

Scattered  is  all  that  courtly  throng,  like  leaves  by 

autumn  blast ; 
And  in  his  father's  arms  the  dying  minstrel  breathed 

his  last : 
The  father  wrapped  him  in  his  cloak,  and  placed  him 

on  his  steed  ; 
Holding  him  firmly  there,  he  left  that  castle's  court 

with  speed. 

XI. 

The  gray -haired  minstrel  halts  beneath  that  portal- 
arch  and  wall, 

And,  seizing  there  his  precious  harp,  —  most  price 
less  harp  of  all,  — 

Upon  a  marble  column  tall  he  dashed  that  harp's 
sweet  chords, 

And  called  till  courts  and  castle  all  re-echoed  with 
his  words :  — 


THE  MINSTREL'S   CURSE.  31 

XII. 

' '  Woe  to  }*ou  and  your  lofty  halls  !  May  never  more 
be  heard 

Within  these  walls  a  harp's  sweet  tone,  or  song  of 
minstrel-bard ! 

Oh,  here  be  only  sighs  and  groans,  and  timid  slave- 
steps  old  ! 

Avenging  ghosts  you  and  your  walls  tread  down  to 
dust  and  mould  ! 

XIII. 

' '  Woe  to  }-ou  and  your  gardens  sweet  here  in  the 

fair  May-light ! 

I  show  you  here  this  dead  one's  face,  this  pale  dis 
figured  sight, 

That  }*e  thereat  may  wither,  and  these  fountains 
cease  to  pi  a}* ! 

That,  petrified  and  perished,  ye  shall  lie  in  future 
day  ! 

XIV. 

"  Woe  to  thee,  cursed  murderer  !  thou  curse  of  min- 

strelsie  ! 
Thy  strivings  after  crowns  of  bloody  fame  in  vain 

shall  be  ; 
Thy  name  shall  be  forgotten,  and  in  endless  night 

go  out ; 
And   thou    shalt  be  like  dying  groan  in  empty  air 

breathed  out ! ' ' 


32  THE  MINSTREL'S   CURSE. 

XV. 

The  old  man's  curse  is  spoken  now,  and  Heaven 

has  heard  his  praj-er  : 
That  lofty  castle's  walls  lie  low  ;  its  ruined  halls  are 

bare. 
One   lofty  column  only  tells  of  splendor  past  and 

gone, 
And   that  —  already  thunder-riven  —  shall   soon  be 

lying  prone. 

XVI. 

Instead    of  fragrant    gardens    there,    are    desolate 

heath-lands ; 
No  tree  now  scatters  grateful  shade,  no  fountains 

cool  the  sands. 
Of  that  king's  name,  no  hero-book1  or  song  gives 

any  word  : 
Sunk   and  forgotten,  all  are  lost! — the  minstrel's 

curse  was  heard  ! 

1  Hero-book ;  i.e.,  the  German  "  Heldcnbuch,"  or  "  Book  of  Heroes." 
The  "  Heldenbuch  "is  a  very  celebrated  collection  of  old  German  poems, 
in  which  arc  embodied  many  national  traditions  of  Germany  in  very 
remote  times,  and  wherein  are  recorded  in  song  the  exploits  and  ad 
ventures  of  the  most  celebrated  knights  and  heroes  of  Germany. 

These  poems  have  become  world-renowned,  and  interest  and  excite 
the  imagination,  not  only  from  their  antiquity  and  rude  poetic  beauties, 
hut  also  by  their  vivid  and  romantic  tales  of  love  and  war  in  the  olden 
times,  when  love  and  war  were  almost  the  only  occupations  of  knights, 
nobles,  and  heroes;  and  for  a  knight  or  king  not  to  be  honorably  men 
tioned  in  song  and  hero-book,  was  simply  to  be  consigned  to  a  nameless 
and  dishonorable  grave.  The  poems  of  which  the  "Ileldenbuch"  is 
composed  were  written  by  the  earliest  poets  of  Germany,  who,  like  the 


THE  MINSTREL'S   CURSE.  33 

ancient  minstrels  of  England  and  Scotland,  probably  wandered  from 
castle  to  castle,  and  sang  them  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  harp  or  cith 
ern,  in  old  baronial  halls,  to  delighted  audiences  of  lords  and  ladies. 
These  poems  were  composed  by  various  authors  at  different  times,  and 
were  afterwards  collected  together  into  a  sort  of  continuous  history,  as  the 
Iliad  is  said  to  have  been  in  Greece.  Many  of  them  relate  to  the  Suabian 
period;  and  they,  together  with  the  "  Nibelungen  Lied,"  —  another  very 
celebrated  collection  of  German  national  songs,  about  which  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  wrote  much,  —  are  to  Germany  what  the  Iliad  of  Homer  is  to 
Greece;  and,  indeed,  the  "  Nibelungen  Lied"  is  often  called  the  Ger 
man  Iliad.  These  old  heroic  poems,  says  Mr.  Carlyle,  "are  strangely 
intertwisted,  and  growing  out  of  and  into  one  another;  and  they  show 
to  the  Germans  that  they  too,  as  well  as  the  Greeks,  have  their  heroic 
age ;  and  round  the  old  Valhalla,  as  their  northern  Pantheon,  are  grouped 
a  world  of  demi-gods  and  wonders.  ...  A  strange  charm  lies  in  these 
old  tones  [songs],  where,  in  gay  dancing  melodies,  the  sternest  tidings 
are  sung  to  us ;  and  deep  floods  of  sadness  and  strife  play  lightly  in  little 
curling  billows,  like  seas  in  summer." 


MIGNOX. 

MIGNON  is  one  of  the  sweet  and  interesting  characters 

—  perhaps  the  most  interesting  —  in  Gothe's  "  Wilhelm 
Meister."     In  her  earliest  childhood  —  of  which  she  still 
retains   some  faint  and   imperfect  memories  —  she   had 
been  stolen  from  her  noble  home  and  parents  by  a  band 
of  strolling  gipsies  or  jugglers,  and  secretly  carried  from 
her  own  sunny  Italy,  across  the  Alps,  into  Germany.     As 
she  grew  up  she   was  taught  by  her  harsh  masters  to 
sing,  dance,  and  perform  feats  on  the  rope,  etc.,  to  gain 
money  for  those  who  had  stolen  her.     But,  through  all 
her  hardships,  she  still  retained  a  faint  remembrance  of 
her  early,  happy  childhood  in  a  beautiful  home  in  warm 
and  sunny  Italy,  —  where  she  had  been  loved  and  petted, 

—  with  a  deep  and  longing  desire  to  return  thither  again. 
And  she  remembered  more  vividly  her  sad  and  dark  jour 
ney  over  the  dangerous  and  fearful  Alps,  with  their  misty 
cloud-paths  and  dreadful  avalanches,  which  had  probably 
filled  her  childish  and  terror-stricken  mind  with  horror. 
Wilhelm  Meister  happened  one  day  to  witness  the  per 
formances   of    Mignon    and    her   troupe,    during   which 
Mignon  was  unmercifully  abused.     This  so  aroused  his 
sympathy  for  the  child,  that  he  obtained  possession  of 
her,  and  became  her  protector.     One  morning,  soon  after, 
he  was  surprised  at  finding  her  before  his  door  singing 
the  following  song  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  cithern, 

34 


MIGNON.  35 

which  had  accidentally  fallen  into  her  hands.  On  finish 
ing  the  song  for  the  second  time,  she  stood  silent  for  a 
moment,  looked  keenly  into  Wilhelm's  face,  and  asked 
him,  "  Know'st  thou  the  land?  "  —  "  It  must  be 
Italy,"  said  Wilhelm,  musingly  ;  but  the  child's  his 
tory  was  yet  a  mystery  to  him.  "  Where  didst  thou 
get  the  little  song?  "  said  he.  "Italy,  "  said  Mignon, 
with  a  sad  and  earnest  air:  "if  thou  go  to  Italy,  take 
me  along  with  thee,  for  I  am  too  cold  here."  —  "  Hast 
thou  been  there  already,  little  dear  ?  "  said  Wilhelm. 
But  the  child  was  silent,  and  nothing  more  could  he 
learn  from  her. 


MIGNON. 

(From  the  German.) 

I. 

KNOW'ST  thou  the  land  where  the  fair  citrons  grow  ?  — 
Through  foliage  dark  golden  oranges  glow,  — 
Where  the  blue  heavens  breathe  fragrant,  balmy  air, 
And  modest  myrtle  stands  with  laurel  fair? 

Know'st  thou  it  well?  then  thither,  oh  ! 

Would  I  with  thee,  my  own  beloved  one,  go ! 

n. 

Know'st  thou  the  house,  with  columns  ranged  around  ? 
The  great  hall  shines  ;  the  rooms  with  gilt  abound  ; 
And  marble  statues  stand  and  gaze  on  me, 
And   say,    "  Poor   child,  what   have  they  done  to 

thee?" 

Know'st  thou  it  well?  then  thither,  oh ! 
Would  I  with  thee,  my  dear  protector,  go  ! 
36 


MIGNON.  37 


III. 

Know'st  thou  the  mountain  where  the  cloud-paths 

stray  ? 

The  muleteer  seeks  in  mist  his  doubtful  way  ; 
In  the  deep  cavern  dwells  the  dragon's  brood  ; 
Down  plunge  the  rocks,  and  over  them  the  flood. 

Know'st  thou  it  well?  then  thither,  oh  ! 

Goes  our  own  way  !     O  father,  let  us  go  ! 


THE  MAIDEN'S  LAMENT. 

(From  the  German.) 


THE  oak  forests  roar, 

And  the  dark  clouds  sail  by  ; 
On  the  green  of  the  shore 

Sits  a  maiden  to  sigh  ; 
And  the  wild  waves  are  breaking  with  power  and 

might, 
While  the  maiden  sighs  out  in  the  dark,  gloomy 

night, 
And  her  eyes  are  all  reddened  with  weeping. 

n. 

The  heart  sad  and  broken  ; 

Life,  empty  and  vain, 
Now  gives  her  no  token 

Or  comfort  in  pain  : 

"  Thou  Holy  One,  call  now  thy  child  back  again  ! 
I  have  tasted  earth's  pleasures  ;  no  more  now  re 
main  : 

I  have  lived,  and  loved  one  who  is  sleeping." 
38 


THE  MAIDEN'S  LAMENT.  39 

III. 

But  the  course  of  her  tears 
Is  all  fruitless  and  vain  ; 
The  lamenting  for  years 

Wakes  the  dead  not  again. 

Oh  !  tell  what  can  comfort  and  heal  the  sick  heart 
When  sweet  vanished  love  leaves  us  only  its  smart : 
I,  the  heavenly  one,  will  not  deny  it. 

IV. 

Let  in  vain  be  the  course 

Of  the  tears  that  are  shed  ; 
Let  laments  have  no  force 

To  awaken  the  dead  ; 
Still  the  sweetest  of  pleasure  for  hearts  that  must 

mourn, 

When  love's  vanished  pleasure  no  more  can  return, 
Is  love's  hallowed  grief.     All  must  try  it. 


MAN. 

(From  the  German.) 
I. 

IN  the  world,  outcast  and  lonely, 
Stands  weak  man,  forsaken  here, 

Storms  and  winds  around  him  raging  ; 
Nothing  to  his  heart  is  dear. 


Lovingly  the  stars  call  to  him, 

And  the  sweet  flowers  whisper,  too, 

"Look  not  sadly  on  the  future, 
We,  O  man,  are  one  with  you  !  " 


And  he  presses,  with  deep  longing, 
Earth  and  heaven  to  his  heart ; 

And,  in  warm  and  tender  tear-drops, 
Love  relieves  his  keenest  smart. 
40 


MAN,  41 

IV. 

But  the  north-wind  sweeps  the  meadows  ; 

All  the  flowerets  fade  and  die  ; 
While,  with  pilgrim-staff,  he  wanders 

Earth,  and  puts  his  trust  on  high. 

v. 

And,  with  heart  and  soul  still  hoping, 
Looks  he  to  heaven's  starry  train  ; 
And  the  tender  blossoms,  bursting 
From  the  bleak  earth,  bloom  again. 

VI. 

Youth's  companions,  from  him  fleeing, 
Give  him  o'er  to  want  and  pain  ; 

No  one  sharing  now  his  sorrows, 
Old  age  weighs  him  down  amain. 

VII. 

Lastly,  seeks  he  for  the  threshold 
Where  his  cradle  once  did  stand  ; 

But  the  place  is  strange  and  altered : 
No  one  takes  him  by  the  hand. 

VIII. 

Trustingly  he  gazes  upwards 
To  the  heavens,  as  once  before  : 

"  Oh  !  my  course  on  earth  is  ended  ; 
Youth  to  me  will  come  no  more. 


42  MAN. 

IX. 

"  Many  things  with  time  may  perish  ; 

Still  some  must  immortal  be  : 
One  there  is,  —  and  I  will  trust  Him,  — 
One,  whom  those  bright  stars  can  see  ! 

x. 

"  I  can  love,  believing,  hoping  : 

Through  the  darkness  shines  a  light, 
And  I  see  the  heavens  opening 

When  breaks  the  heart  in  endless  night." 


OF   US   THERE   ARE   SEVEN. 

(From  the  German.) 

I. 

SURROUNDED  with  fair  flowers,  sat  a  child  beside  a 

grave, 
Where  in  the  morning  wind  her  long,  dark  flowing 

hair  did  wave  : 
Her  cheeks  were  glowing  fresh  and  fair,  like  cherries 

in  sweet  May ; 
Her  fair  eyes  beaming  clear  and  bright,  like  stars  at 

close  of  day. 


n. 

Never   was    bird    more    lovely   seen    that    in    the 

branches  sings ; 
Never   gazelle   more  joyful   was   that   through  the 

greenwood  springs  : 
"  Of  brothers  and  of  sisters  dear,  how  many  are  }"e, 

pray  ? ' ' 
"  Seven  in  all  there  are  of  us,"  the  child  did  quickly 

say. 

43 


44  OF   US   THERE  ARE  SEVEN. 

III. 
"Two   planting   in   the  garden  are;    two  sleep  in 

green  graves  here  ; 
And  two  are  fishing  on  the  lake  ;  seven  are  we,  sir, 

'tis  clear !  " 
"  If  two  are  fishing  on  the  lake,  and  in  the  garden 

two, 
Then  are  ye  certainly  not  seven :  my  darling  child, 

speak  true  ! ' ' 

IV. 

"  Yes,  two  of  us  are  sleeping  in  these  little  green 

graves  here  : 
Therefore  we  surely  seven  are,  —  yes,  seven,  sir,  'tis 

clear!" 
' '  If    two   of   j'ou    lie    buried   here    beneath   these 

flowerets  wild, 
Then  are  ye  surely  only  five,  my  good  and  darling 

child!" 

v. 

"Oh,  no!  oh,  no!  not  five,  kind  sir!  seven,  cer 
tainly,  are  we  ; 

For  brother  dear,  and  sister  dear,  come  often  back 
to  me ! 

Oh,  long  and  patiently  lay  sister  dear  with  failing 
breath, 

And  smiled  upon  us  tenderly,  as  closed  her  eyes  in 
death. 


OF    US    THERE  ARE   SEVEN.  45 

VI. 

"  She  taught  mo  often  of  God's  love,  to  turn  my 
thoughts  from  vice, 

Till  God  called  her  unto  himself  to  dwell  in  Para 
dise  ; 

Then  came  I  often  to  her  grave  —  I  and  my  brother 
dear  — 

To  cover  it  with  fragrant  flowers,  and  sit  beside  her 
here. 

VII. 

"  But  when  cold  Winter  killed  the  flowers,  and  the 

white  snow  was  here, 
Then   God  called   little  brother,  too,  to  dwell  with 

sister  dear : 
Now  I  come  here  to  deck  their  graves  with  flowers 

red  and  white, 
And  knit,  and  pray,  and  eat  my  evening  meals  in 

the  twilight. 

VIII. 

"  And  oft,  when  weary  by  this  cross  I  lie  in  slum 
bers  light, 

Then  come  they  down  from  heaven  in  forms  all 
wonderful!}-  bright : 

The}'  leave  beside  me  heavenly  flowers  that  in  God's 
garden  grow, 

Where  with  the  pure  white  lambs  of  God  the  shin 
ing  angels  go. 


46  OF    US   THERE  ARE  SEVEN. 

IX. 
"  Oh,  gladly  would  I  there  remain  ;  but,  vanishing, 

they  sa}*, 
'  Be   brave,  dear   sister,  till   we   meet  again   some 

future  day ! ' 
Therefore  not  five,  but  seven,  sir,  in  all,  are  we,  'tis 

clear,  — 
In  garden  and  upon  the  lake,  and  in  these  green 

graves  here." 


THE   RICHEST  PRINCE. 

(From  the  German. 

I. 

LOUDLY  praising — in  fine  speeches  — 
Their  rich  countries,  great  and  small, 

Once  sat  many  German  princes 
In  Worms'  high  imperial  hall. 


n. 

Proudly  spake  the  King  of  Saxons  : 
"  Richest  land?  Why,  that  is  mine  ! 

Endless  treasures,  in  her  mountains 
Buried,  lie  in  many  a  mine." 


in. 

"  See  my  land  in  rich  abundance  !  " 
Cried  the  proud  Prince  of  the  Rhine  : 

' '  Golden  harvests  fill  her  valleys  ; 
On  her  hills,  rich  grapes  for  wine." 

47 


48  THE  RICHEST  PRINCE. 


IV. 


"Might}'  cities  and  rich  convents  "  — 
Ludwig,  King  of  Baiern,1  said  — 

"  Cause  my  land  of  all  }'our  vaunted 
Treasures  not  to  stand  in  dread."  2 


v. 


Eberhard,  —  he  of  the  dark  beard,  — 
"VVurternberg's  beloved  lord, 

Said,  "  My  land  has  but  small  cities, 
And  her  hills  no  silver  hoard. 


VI. 


"  But  she  holds  one  hidden  treasure,— 
In  all  kingdoms  none  so  great,  — 

I  can  lay  my  head  with  safety 
In  each  lap  within  my  State  !  " 


VII. 

"  Then,"  cried  out  the  Prince  of  Saxons, 
King  of  Baiern,  Lord  of  Rhine, 

"  Bearded  count,  thou  art  the  richest ! 
No  land  can  compare  with  thine." 

1  Bavaria. 

2  ,,Scf)nffen  bafj  tnein  2anb  ben  euren 

2Boi)l  nidjt  ftct)t  on  Sd)afcen  nacfj." 


THE   TWO   LITTLE   WINDOWS. 

(From  the  German.) 

I. 

THERE  is  a  grand  and  stately  house, 
With  but  two  windows  small ; 

And  through  them  all  the  world  looks  in, 
From  out  them  one  sees  all. 


n. 

And  ever  there  a  painter  sits 
Who  knows  his  art  all  through  ; 

And  he  paints  all  things  rapidly,  — 
Wliite,  black,  red,  green,  and  blue. 


in. 

He  paints  things  square,  round,  short,  or  long. 

As  he  the  fancy  takes  ; 
And  no  one  could  name  half  the  shades 

And  forms  which  there  he  makes. 

49 


50  THE   TWO  LITTLE    WINDOWS. 


He's  a  magician,  I  aver, 
Who  can  earth's  secrets  see, 

And  paint  them  on  a  little  spot 
No  larger  than  a  pea  ! 


What  that  house's  lord  implores  or  thinks, 
On  those  two  panes  paints  he  ; 

So  that  each  one  who  passes  by 
It  plainly  there  can  see. 

VI. 

If  that  house's  lord  at  home  is  gay, 

Or  if  he  suffers  pain, 
Then  pearl}'  drops  oft  show  themselves 

Upon  each  little  pane. 

VII. 

In  pleasant  weather,  sunny  days, 
Then  are  they  clear  and  bright ; 

But  if  it  freezes,  storms,  and  snows, 
Then  darkened  is  their  light. 

VIII. 

And,  when  that  house's  lord  goes  to  rest, 

No  light  he  needs  to  take  ; 
For  then  Death  slams  the  shutters  to, 

And,  oh  !  the  windows  break  ! 


CRADLE   SONG. 

(From  the  German.) 

I. 

SLEEP,  my  heart's  treasure  !    My  darling  art  thou  ! 
Close  thy  sweet  blue  eyes  in  soft  slumber  now  ; 
All  is  as  quiet  and  still  as  the  grave  : 
Sleep  while  I  watch,  and  the  flies  from  thee  wave. 


n. 

Now  is  th}'  golden  time,  free  from  all  pain : 
Later,  oh,  later  is  never  the  same  ; 
Once,  by  thy  couch,  let  care  place  itself  here 
Ne'er  wilt  thou  slumber  so  sweetly,  my  dear. 


in. 


Angels  from  heaven,  as  lovely  as  thou, 
Hover  around  thee,  and  smile  on  thee  now  : 
Later,  indeed,  they  may  come  to  thee  here, 
But  only  to  wipe  away  many  a  tear. 

51 


52  CRADLE   SONG. 


IV. 


Sleep,  m}T  heart's  treasure  !    Come  night  when  it  will, 
Mother  sits  by  thee  and  watches  thee  still ! 
Be  it  late,  be  it  early,  —  however  time  flies,  — 
Mother's  love,  darling,  ne'er  slumbers  or  dies  ! 


THE   CASTLE   BY  THE   SEA. 
(From  the  German.) 

I. 

HAST  thou  seen  that  stately  castle 
Standing  by  the  moaning  sea  ? 

Golden,  rose-tinged  clouds  hang  o'er  it, 
Moving  there  mysteriously. 


ii. 

Seemingly  it  would  plunge  downward 
Through  the  clear  flood  at  its  base, 

Or  would  struggle  and  mount  upward 
Where  the  red  clouds  glow  in  space." 


in. 

Yes,  indeed,  I  well  have  seen  it, 
That  high  castle  by  the  sea, 

And  the  round  moon  o'er  it  sailing 
Through  the  mists  mysteriously." 

53 


54  THE   CASTLE  BY   THE   SEA. 


"  And  the  wind's  and  sea's  low  moaning, 

Gave  they  not  a  wondrous  sound? 
Heard 'st  thou  from  those  halls  of  grandeur 
Tuneful  harps  and  songs  resound?  " 


All  the  winds  and  all  the  wavelets, 
They  were  hushed  in  quiet  rest : 

Mourning  songs,  from  that  proud  castle, 
Heard  I  there,  with  tears  oppressed." 

VI. 

Saw'st  thou,  moving  through  that  castle, 
The  proud  king  and  stately  queen? 

Saw'st  thou  waving  of  red  mantles, 
Or  of  golden  crowns  the  sheen  ? 


"  With  delight,  were  thej-  not  leading 

A  young  maiden  sweet  and  rare, 
Radiant  as  the  beams  of  morning, 
In  her  golden  tresses  fair?  " 

VIII. 

"  Ay,  indeed,  I  saw  the  parents  ; 

But  no  shining  crowns  were  there  : 
They  were  in  black  mourning-garments  ; 
But  no  maiden  saw  I  there  !  " 


THE  MINSTREL. 

(From  the  German.) 

The  following  exquisite  ballad  is  from  the  German  of  Gothe.  It  very 
happily  exemplifies  some  of  the  genuine  characteristics  of  the  true 
ballad  style,  in  which  the  poet  often  gives  us  general  outlines  of  the 
story  and  events  to  he  related,  leaving  it  to  the  reader's  own  imagination 
to  supply  and  fill  in  all  that  is  left  unexpressed;  wbile  the  poet,  with 
effective  brevity  of  expression  and  great  boldness  of  transition  from 
thought  to  thought,  projects  his  rapidly  succeeding  poetic  pictures  upon 
the  mental  canvas  of  the  reader's  mind  in  concise,  and  often  very  ellip 
tical,  sentences. 

I. 

"  WHAT  hear  I  by  our  castle-gate? 

What  notes  upon  the  drawbridge  ring? 
Doth  there  some  wandering  minstrel  wait 

Before  us  in  our  hall  to  sing?  " 
Thus  spake  the  king.     His  page  ran  out, 

And  soon  returned,  with  jo}"ous  shout, 
Leading  a  gray-haired  minstrel  in. 

n. 
"  Hail,  noble  king  and  lords  !  "  he  cried  ; 

"  Hail,  ladies  fair  of  high  degree  ! 
Oh,  what  a  heaven  !  stars  side  by  side  ! 
Who  knows  what  all  their  names  may  be  ? 

55 


56  THE  MINSTREL. 

In  lordly  hall,  where  splendors  shine, 

Be  closed  mine  eyes :  here  is  no  time 
With  wondering  delight  to  gaze." 

m. 

The  minstrel  closed  his  wondering  eyes, 
And  swept  the  sounding  chords  along  : 

Bold  knights  beheld,  with  deep  surprise  ; 

Fair  dames,  with  bowed  head,  heard  the  song  ; 

The  king,  well  pleased  with  his  strain, 
Would  give  the  minstrel  golden  chain 

As  guerdon  for  his  miustrelsie. 

IV. 

"  Oh,  give  to  me  no  golden  chains  : 
Let  them  to  thy  bold  knights  be  given, 

By  whose  brave  arms,  on  battle-plains, 
Thine  enemy's  array  is  riven  ; 

Or  on  thy  chancellor  bestow, 

And  let  him  still  the  golden  show 

With  other  weighty  burdens  bear. 

v. 

"  I  sing,  as  sings  the  summer  bird 

Whose  home  is  in  the  greenwood  tree  : 

The  songs,  from  mine  own  bosom  poured, 
Are  rich  rewards,  —  enough  for  me  ; 


THE  MINSTREL.  57 

But,  might  I  claim  one  gift  as  mine, 

Then  be  one  draught  of  noblest  wine 

To  me  in  golden  goblet  given." 

VI. 

He  took  the  wine  ;  he  drank  it  all : 

' '  O  draught  as  sweet  as  light  from  heaven  ! 

Oh,  happy  be  the  princely  hall 

Where  such  sweet  gifts  are  freely  given  ! 

While  well  ye  fare,  oh,  think  of  me  ! 
And  thank  God  freely,  as  I  ye, 

For  this  rich  draught  of  wine,  now  thank." 


I  THINK  OF   THEE. 

(From  the  German.) 

I. 

I  EVER  think  of  thee 
When  through  the  greenwood  tree 
The  nightingale's  sweet  note 
Is  poured  from  muffled  throat : 
When  thinkest  thou  of  me  ? 

n. 

I  ever  think  of  thee 
Where  in  the  glow  I  see 
The  evening  shades  appear, 
By  shad}*  fountains  clear : 
Where  thinkest  thou  of  me  ? 


I  ever  think  of  thee, 
With  kind  thoughts,  painfull}', 
While  longing  anxiously, 
With  warm  tears  flowing  free  : 
How  thinkest  thou  of  me? 

58 


/   THINK   OF  THEE.  59 


Oh,  dearest !  think  of  me 
Until  I  meet  with  thee 
Upon  that  better  star  ; 
And,  be  I  near  or  far, 
I'll  ever  think  of  thee. 


THE   CASTLE   OF   BONCOURT. 

(From  the  German.) 

This  pathetic  little  ballad  is  from  the  German  of  Adalbert  de  Cham- 
isgo,  a  naturalist  and  poet  of  considerable  note,  who  circumnavigated 
the  globe.  The  Castle  of  Boncourt,  in  Champagne,  France,  was  long 
the  family  residence  of  Chamisso's  ancestors,  who  ranked  among  the 
first  families  of  France,  and  at  the  Castle  of  Boncourt  C'hamisso  was 
born  in  1781;  but  during  the  great  Revolution  the  castle  was  assailed, 
and  razed  to  the  ground ;  and  the  impoverished  family,  with  the  boy 
Chamisso,  fled  to  Germany.  Knowing  the  history  of  the  author's  life, 
we  can  the  better  appreciate  the  sweetness  and  beauty  of  the  sentiments 
in  these  touching  memories  of  his  childhood,  when,  in  the  reveries  of 
age,  he  beholds,  in  imagination,  the  obliterated  castle  of  his  fathers 
again  all  perfect,  as  he  had  known  it  in  his  youth. 

I. 

IN  dreams  I  go  back  to  my  childhood, 
And  bow  down  my  head  in  deep  pain  : 

O  visions  of  youth  long  forgotten  ! 
How  comes  it  ye  seek  me  again? 

n. 

From  shady  inclosures,  high  rising, 

I  see  a  grand  castle  of  state  : 
Those  battlements  —  towers  —  well  I  know  them  ; 

That  bridge  of  dark  stone,  and  that  gate. 

60 


THE   CASTLE   OF  BON  COURT.  61 

III. 

And  from  that  escutcheon  all  sadly 

The  lions  look  down  upon  me  ; 
Their  faces  familiar,  I  greet  them, 

And  hasten  the  courtyard  to  see. 

IV. 

The  sphinx  still  lies  there  by  the  fountain, 
And  there  is  the  fig-tree  still  green  ; 

And  there  are  the  windows  and  chamber, 

Where  first  I  dreamed  out  life's  young  dream. 


I  seek,  in  the  old  castle-chapel, 

The  graves  which  my  ancestors  fill  : 

Behold  them,  where  from  lofty  columns 
Their  noble  escutcheons  hang  still ! 


Not  well  can  my  dim  eyes  decipher 
The  inscriptions  in  characters  dim, 

Though  clearly,  through  richly  stained  windows, 
The  light  from  above  them  shines  in. 

vn. 

Thus  stands,  of  my  fathers,  the  castle 

In  memory's  land  firm  and  good, 
Though,  truly,  from  earth  it  has  vanished, 

And  plows  turn  the  ground  where  it  stood. 


62  THE   CASTLE   OF  BONCOURT. 

VIII. 

Be  fruitful,  O  fields  of  my  fathers  ! 

I  bless  you,  though  deep  is  my  pain, 
And  bless  whomsoever  is  guiding 

The  plow  on  my  ancestral  plain. 

IX. 

But  I  —  I  will  quickly  arouse  me, 

And,  with  my  loved  harp  in  my  hand, 

Will  wander  the  wide  world  all  over, 
While  singing  from  land  unto  land. 


EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY   OF   DIFFERENT 
NATIONS. 

HE  who  said,  "Let  me  make  a  nation's  ballads,  and 
I  care  not  who  makes  her  laws,"  was  wiser  than  he  even 
dreamed  of  being  ;  for  many  an  old  ballad,  upon  some 
touching  and  popular  theme,  will  live,  and  bear  its 
"  maker's  "  name  to  future  ages,  when  the  nation,  as 
such,  with  all  its  laws,  has  ceased  to  exist  for  ever. 
The  word  "ballad,"  we  are  told,  is  akin  to  "ballet;" 
being  derived  from  the  Greek  /Ja/Uew,  ' '  to  throw  or 
move  rapidly,"  and  may  indicate  that  the  "makers" 
and  singers  of  the  first  rude  rhymes  among  ancient 
nations  were  in  the  habit  of  dancing  while  they  sang, 
as  a  forcible  illustration  to  these  early  songs. 

The  word  "  ballad  " — meaning  "a  short  epic  poem  "  — 
is  from  the  Italian  ballata,  which  was  used  to  express  an 
old  kind  of  song  of  a  lyric  nature;  and  ballata  is  derived 
from  the  Italian  verb  ballare,  "to  dance."  Now  this 
word  ballata  was  borrowed  from  the  Italians  by  the 
troubadours,  or  minstrel-poets  of  Provence ;  and,  by  the 
Norman  poets,  it  was  carried  northward  in  Europe,  as 
well  as  into  England  and  Scotland,  being  applied  by 
them  all  to  those  short  heroic  poems  and  love-songs 
which  were  composed  to  celebrate  the  deeds  of  their 
heroes,  and  recount  the  adventures  and  passions  of 
knights  and  lovers. 

63 


64  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

All  the  Scandinavian  nations  took  great  delight  in  this 
species  of  poetry;  and  their  minstrel-poets  often  cele 
brated  the  deeds  of  heroes,  and  the  passions  and  adven 
tures  of  lovers,  in  these  short  epic  songs  or  ballads. 
Although  the  name  "ballad"  has  an  Italian  origin,  still 
that  species  of  poetry  never  flourished  to  any  great  extent 
iii  Italy;  for  Italian  poetry  has,  on  the  other  hand,  always 
retained  a  certain  classical  spirit  of  antiquity.  It  seems 
to  be  conceded  by  some  of  the  best  authors  upon  the 
subject,  that  the  species  of  poetry  which  we  now  under 
stand  by  the  word  "  ballad"  is  of  Teutonic  origin;  and 
yet,  in  the  south  of  Europe,  the  Spaniards  have  a  species 
of  songs  or  ballads  of  great  excellence  and  beauty,  and 
which  appear  to  be  at  least  of  equal  antiquity  with  the 
ballads  of  Northern  nations. 

The  early  home  of  the  English  ballad  seems  to  have 
been  in  "  the  North  Countrie,"  —  that  is,  in  the  northern 
parts  of  England  and  the  south  of  Scotland  ;  and,  even 
after  the  Conquest,  the  Normans  who  settled  there,  and 
who  did  not  understand  the  language  of  the  native  bards, 
and  therefore  affected  to  despise  it,  left  it  to  the  com 
mon  people,  among  whom  the  native  songs  and  ballads 
long  flourished,  and  retained  their  popular  character  and 
simplicity.1 

Later,  indeed,  the  feudal  wars  of  the  Norman  knights, 
and  their  chivalric  spirit,  gave  new  subjects  to  the  ballad- 


1  After  the  Norman  Conquest,  the  king  and  great  lords  and  barons 
made  an  effort  to  extirpate  the  English  language,  and  to  substitute  the 
Norman  French  among  the  conquered  people;  and,  to  aid  this  project, 
it  was  ordered  that  all  legal  proceedings  should  be  carried  on  in  French, 
and  that  the  records  of  the  courts  of  law  should  be  kept  in  the  same 
language.  But  neither  the  influence  of  the  great  lords,  — in  whose  petty 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  65 

poetry  of  the  country,  and  contributed  to  modify  its 
character.  The  former  bards  gradually  became  minstrels, 
•who  attached  themselves  to  the  great  lords  and  knights, 
and,  composing  songs  in  honor  of  their  exploits,  waited 
upon  them,  and  devoted  themselves  to  their  amusement, 
receiving  from  them  pecuniary  rewards  and  hospitality. 
In  ancient  times  the  ballad  seems  not  to  have  been  so 
popular  with  the  people  in  Germany  as  it  was  in  Eng 
land  and  Scotland;  but  in  more  modern  times  the  Ger 
man  ballads  are  often  accounted  the  best,  and  some  of 
the  greatest  of  the  poets  of  Germany  have  indulged  in 
their  composition,  —  such  as  Gothe,  Schiller,  Burger, 
Uhland,  Schreiber,  Kerner,  and  many  others. 

But  in  exquisite  and  delicious  ballad-poetry  there  is 
no  country  in  all  Europe  that  can  surpass  sunny,  romantic 
Spain,  that  land  of  serenade  and  song,  of  haughty  dons 
and  dark-eyed  donnas;  the  land  of  chivalry,  romance,  and 
love;  the  land  alternately  of  Christians  and  of  Moors; 
and  in  this  same  sunny  land  of  Spain  are  to  be  found 
the  richest  stores  of  ancient  ballad-poetry. 

It  has  well  been  said  that  those  who  have  the  making 
of  a  nation's  ballads  can  well  dispense  with  the  honor  of 
making  her  laws:  for  a  nation's  laws  are  but  ephemeral 
indeed  in  comparison  to  the  duration  of  a  nation's  bal 
lads;  and  to  their  ballad-poetry  are  all  nations  greatly 
indebted  for  the  preservation  of  a  knowledge  of  their 
ancient  manners  and  customs,  and,  in  the  earliest  times, 

courts  French  was  exclusively  spoken,  —  nor  the  authority  of  the  king, 
even,  could  change  the  language  of  an  entire  people;  and,  after  it  had 
been  tried  about  three  hundred  years,  the  attempt  was  given  up,  and 
since  that  time  English  has  been  the  language  of  the  law-courtB  as  well 
as  of  the  people  at  large.  Some  French  words  are,  however,  retained  in 
legal  phraseology. 


66  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

for  the  preservation  even  of  their  most  important  his 
torical  events. 

Where,  for  instance,  can  be  found  to-day  so  true  a 
picture  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  Greeks  and 
Trojans  of  three  thousand  years  ago  as  in  the  poems  of 
Homer?  —  "the  blind  old  bard  of  Scio's  rocky  isle  !" 
who,  as  has  been  maintained,  was  probably  only  a 
wandering  singer,  a  bard,  a  minstrel,  a  troubadour  of 
prehistoric  times;  who,  it  has  been  suggested,  collected 
the  most  important  ballads  of  his  own  and  previous 
times,  and,  by  creations  and  additions  of  his  own,  wove 
them  into  a  sort  of  continuous  history  of  the  great 
events  that  stirred  the  world  of  Greece  and  Asia  Minor 
more  than  a  thousand  years  before  the  birth  of  Christ; 
doing  in  the  East  what  (more  than  a  thousand  years 
afterwards)  another  blind  old  bard  did  for  the  West, 
when  Ossian  —  the  rhapsodist,  the  minstrel,  the  great 
troubadour  of  the  Gaelic  tribes  of  the  Wres tern  world  — 
sang  the  historic  deeds  of  his  own  and  former  times  in 
the  pure,  classic  strains  of  his  own  bold  and  figurative 
Gaelic  tongue,  —  a  language  as  pure,  as  poetical,  and  as 
rich  in  compound  epithets  and  startling  metaphor,  as 
that  in  which  the  Grecian  bard  of  old  sang  his  undying 
strains  to  the  ravished  ears  of  all  the  world  for  all  time 
to  come.  And  so  we  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  and  love 
to  the  bards  and  minstrels  of  all  times  and  tongues;  for, 
long  before  the  days  of  authentic  history,  the  bards  and 
minstrels  of  all  nations  wove  the  important  events  of 
their  own  times  into  short  rhythmical  histories,  which 
were  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation,  often 
perhaps  undergoing  some  slight  changes  in  the  oral 
transmission,  but,  in  the  main,  true  (in  most  cases  at 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  67 

least)  to  the  facts  and  customs  of  the  ages  now  gone  by. 
And,  as  meter  was  the  form  of  language  best  adapted 
to  the  oral  transmission  of  passing  events,  it  was  natural 
that  poetry,  in  the  literary  history  of  all  nations,  should 
have  an  earlier  origin  than  prose;  and,  even  in  a  low 
state  of  social  and  literary  advancement,  the  art  of 
poetry  might  attain,  in  the  keeping  of  the  bards,  to  a 
considerable  degree  of  excellence,  and  even  to  a  lofty 
elevation  of  thought  and  language.  Such,  indeed,  is  the 
case  with  the  poetry  of  Ossian ;  for  in  his  works  there 
is  a  great  degree  of  regularity  and  poetic  art,  wherein 
the  deepest  tenderness  and  delicacy  of  sentiment  are 
often  found,  as  well  as  the  fire  and  enthusiasm  which 
belong  to  bards  of  the  earliest  times. 

The  Goths  —  under  which  name  are  comprehended 
all  the  ancient  Scandinavian  tribes  —  were  a  fierce  and 
warlike  people,  and  not  noted  for  a  knowledge  of  the 
liberal  arts;  and  yet  they  had  their  bards  and  their 
songs  from  the  most  remote  times,  —  songs  which  re 
counted  the  deeds  of  their  heroes,  and  the  traditions  of 
their  countries  and  tribes.  And  many  of  those  ancient 
songs,  called  vyses,  were  found  engraven  upon  the  rocks, 
"in  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme,"  cut  there  by  the  poets 
of  the  Scandinavian  tribes,  who  were  called  scalders, 
in  the  ancient  Runic  characters  of  the  times;  and  the 
more  ancient  the  songs  of  the  scalders,  says  Dr.  Percy, 
the  more  they  were  believed  to  be  connected  with  true 
history.  There  is  a  very  curious  specimen  of  the  poetry 
of  the  scalders  preserved  by  Olaus  Wormius,  a  learned 
Dane,  who  was  skilled  in  the  antiquities  of  Denmark 
and  Norway.  This  literary  curiosity  is  preserved  in 
his  work,  "  De  Literatura  Runica."  The  specimen  here 


68  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

meant  is  the  epicediwn,  or  funeral  song,  which  was 
composed  by  King  Regner  Lodbrog  of  Denmark.  This 
Lodbrog  was  a  celebrated  warrior  of  the  piratical  class 
in  the  eighth  century,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  finally 
fall  into  the  power  of  his  enemy,  by  whom  he  was  im 
prisoned,  and  condemned  to  death.  Being  a  celebrated 
scalder,  he  consoled  himself  in  prison  by  composing  this 
epicediutn,  or  funeral  song,  in  which  he  recounted  the 
warlike  exploits  of  his  early  life,  and  declared  the  forti 
tude  with  which  he  should  meet  death,  and  his  hopes 
and  expectations  of  an  exalted  and  happy  position  in 
the  halls  of  Odin,  saying,  "In  the  house  of  the  mighty 
Odin  no  brave  man  laments  death.  I  come  not  with  the 
voice  of  despair  to  Odin's  hall."  The  entire  composition 
is  a  remarkable  and  curious  specimen  of  the  customs  and 
feelings  predominant  among  men  in  those  far-off  ages, 
and  of  the  poetic  attainments  of  those  times.  What  the 
scalders  were  to  the  ancient  Scandinavians,  the  bards 
were  to  the  ancient  Britons  and  Celts.  The  Celtse  were 
a  numerous  and  warlike  people,  distinct  from  the  Goths 
and  Teutons,  who,  in  the  earliest  times,  held  dominion 
over  a  large  portion  of  Western  Europe,  and  established 
themselves  firmly  in  ancient  Gaul  ;  and,  among  the 
Celtae  or  Gauls,  there  were  found,  from  the  earliest 
times,  two  orders  of  men,  who  were  held  in  the  highest 
estimation.  These  were  the  druids,  who  were  their 
philosophers  and  priests,  and,  to  some  extent,  their  law 
givers;  and  the  bards,  whose  office  it  was  to  compose 
songs  in  honor  of  the  heroic  deeds  of  great  chieftains 
and  in  celebration  of  important  events,  and  to  recite 
them  to  the  assembled  people  on  public  occasions.  The 
druids  dwelt  together  in  societies;  and,  philosophizing 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  69 

upon  the  destiny  of  man,  they  asserted  the  immortality  of 
the  human  soul.  The  bards,  in  their  character  of  poets 
and  historians  of  their  people,  —  among  whom  the  office 
was  hereditary,  —  came  to  be  so  numerous,  that  every 
chieftain  of  note  was  accustomed  to  have  his  own  par 
ticular  bard,  who  was  considered  a  member  of  his  house 
hold,  and  held  a  position  of  importance  in  his  little  court. 
On  all  important  occasions  the  bards  were  messengers 
between  contending  tribes,  and  ambassadors  between  the 
courts  of  princes  and  chieftains.  Their  persons  were  held 
sacred  upon  all  occasions;  for,  as  says  Ossian,  "though  the 
soul  of  Cairbar  was  dark,  he  feared  to  stretch  his  sword 
to  the  bards."  "  Loose  the  bards:  they  are  the  sons  of 
other  times  ;  their  voices  shall  be  heard  in  other  ages, 
when  the  kings  of  Temora  have  failed."  Thus  the 
Celtic  nations  of  remote  times  had  their  bards,  to  whom 
the  minstrels  of  the  Middle  Ages  seem  to  have  been  the 
genuine  successors;  and  the  Gothic  nations  of  earliest 
ages  had  their  scalds,  or  scalders  (smoothers  or  polishers 
of  language),  to  whom  succeeded  the  minnesingers  of 
the  Middle  Ages  throughout  Germany:  but  there  was,  in 
the  south  of  Europe,  one  nation  whose  poetry  in  its  early 
stages  was,  for  hundreds  of  years,  tinged  by  lasting 
influences  from  another  quarter  of  the  globe.  That  coun 
try  was  Spain,  which,  as  has  already  been  stated,  is 
unsurpassed  by  any  country  in  Europe  in  the  rich  stores 
of  its  ballad-poetry ;  but  the  character  of  that  poetry  was 
early  tinged  by  Oriental  influences. 

In  order  fully  to  understand  the  reasons  for  this,  it  is 
necessary  to  look,  for  a  moment,  at  the  physical  features 
and  geographical  situation  of  the  peninsula  of  Spain, 
and  to  take  into  consideration  the  characters  of  the  differ- 


70  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

ent  peoples  who  contributed  to  make  up  its  ancient  in 
habitants.  Spain,  including  Portugal,  is  surrounded  on 
three  sides  by  the  Mediterranean  Sea  and  Atlantic 
Ocean;  while  more  than  one-half  of  its  northern  portion 
is  washed  by  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  and  its  remaining  part 
is  separated  from  the  rest  of  Europe  by  the  lofty  chain 
of  the  Pyrenees  Mountains,  thus  rendering  it,  in  ancient 
times,  more  isolated  than  other  European  countries. 

Spain  was  anciently  called  Iberia;  and  the  ancient 
Iberians,  who  had  been  driven  towards  the  West,  formed 
the  basis  of  the  population  of  Spain,  including  ancient 
Lusitania  (now  Portugal).  Their  original  language  is 
said  to  still  exist  in  the  Basque.  Later  still  came  in  the 
Celt*,  who  were  mingled  to  some  extent  with  them. 
Thus  the  Spanish  people  were  descended  from  Iberians 
and  Celts,  somewhat  mingled  with  Carthaginian  and 
Roman  colonists;  for,  as  early  as  the  third  century  before 
the  Christian  era,  Home  and  Carthage  contended  for  the 
possession  of  the  Spanish  peninsula.1  Later  still,  after 
a  struggle  of  near  two  hundred  years,  Agrippa,  the  gen 
eral  of  Augustus,  overcame  the  Spanish  inhabitants,  and 

1  In  the  primitive  ages  the  different  tribes  of  men  were  named  from 
gome  characteristic  of  the  people,  or  from  the  place  of  their  residence. 
Thus,  to  the  primitive  inhabitants  of  the  west  of  Europe  the  Greeks 
gave  the  name  of  KeArot,  i.e.,  Celts,  —  a  word  which  signified  woodsmen. 
These  were  said  to  be  descended  from  the  name  ancestors  as  the  Greeks 
and  Romans,  but  they  had  early  migrated  into  Gaul  and  Spain ;  and  the 
primitive  occupiers  of  these  countries  bad  been  pushed  forward,  by  suc 
cessive  hordes  of  men,  till  they  were  stopped  by  the  ocean  or  impassa 
ble  mountain-chains,  and  there  their  descendants  are  at  present  to  be 
found.  And,  of  these,  are  a  part  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  north  of  Spain, 
with  those  of  France  south  of  the  River  Garonne,  called  by  the  Romans 
Ganimna  flumen,  and  the  inhabitants  they  called  Aquilani  and  Can- 
tabri ;  but  more  modern  historians  called  them  Cantabrians,  Gascoigns, 
and  Basques,  and  these  still  retain  their  ancient  native  language. 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  71 

Spain  was  subjected  to  the  Roman  power;  and  Augustus 
himself  founded  the  colony  of  Caesar  Augusta  (Sara- 
gossa),  and  for  nearly  four  hundred  years  the  Roman 
language  and  manners  prevailed  in  the  peninsula  After 
the  irruption  of  the  barbarians  into  the  Roman  Empire, 
the  Vandals,  Suevi,  and  Alans  spread  themselves  over  the 
Spanish  peninsula.  In  the  fifth  century  Wallia  founded, 
in  Spain,  the  kingdom  of  the  Visigoths;  and  the  Vandals, 
from  whom  Andalusia  received  its  name,  withdrew  into 
Africa.  In  the  latter  part  of  the  fifth  century  the 
great  Euric  extended  the  kingdom  of  the  Visigoths  in 
Spain,  and,  driving  out  the  Romans,  gave  them  their 
first  written  laws.  Nearly  a  hundred  years  later,  Leo- 
wigild  overturned  the  kingdom  of  the  Suevi  in  Galicia; 
and  his  successor  introduced  the  Catholic  religion  about 
A.D.  586,  and  that,  in  time,  gave  the  corrupt  Latin  lan 
guage  a  predominance  over  the  Gothic. 

The  Romans  called  that  part  of  Western  Africa  which 
lies  opposite  to  Spain,  Mauritania;  and  the  inhabitants 
thereof  they  called  Moors.  This  territory  of  Mauritania 
was  long  under  the  dominion  of  the  Vandals,  who  had 
established  there,  at  one  time,  a  powerful  kingdom, 
which  was,  however,  overthrown  in  the  first  half  of  the 
sixth  century.  During  the  seventh  century  the  Sara 
cens  (Arabians),  who  were  followers  of  Mohammed, 
extended  their  conquests  over  this  part  of  Africa  from 
the  East,  and  Mauritania  came  to  be  governed  by  a 
deputy  of  the  Caliph  of  Damascus.  The  Saracens,  or 
Arabians,  being  firmly  established  and  powerful  in  Mau 
ritania,  opposite  to  the  Spanish  peninsula,  they,  in  the 
beginning  of  the  eighth  century,  took  advantage  of  the 
disorders  of  the  Visigoths  in  Spain,  and  reduced  a  large 


72  EARL  7  BALLAD-POETRY 

part  of  the  peninsula  under  their  yoke,  holding  it  in  sub 
jection  for  nearly  eight  hundred  years  thereafter,  with 
the  exception  of  some  of  the  northern  provinces  and  por 
tions  of  the  sea-coast;  and  thus  the  greater  part  of  Spain 
was  for  a  time  a  province  of  the  caliphs  of  Bagdad. 

But,  the  power  of  the  caliphs  declining  in  time,  the 
different  governors  became  after  a  while  independent, 
and  assumed  the  title  of  kings;  and  Arabian  princes 
reigned  at  Saragossa,  Toledo,  Valencia,  and  Seville;  and 
the  Moorish  language  and  customs  became  almost  uni 
versal  where  the  Arabians  held  sway. 

Meanwhile  the  Visigoths  long  and  steadily  maintained 
their  freedom  in  the  mountainous  districts  of  the  north, 
until  the  Moorish  dynasties  became  weakened  by  ages  of 
dissensions;  and  then  the  Christian  kings  wrested  one 
portion  of  the  country  after  another  from  their  Arabian 
conquerors,  until  only  the  Moorish  kingdom  of  Granada 
remained  to  them;  and  that  was  obliged  to  acknowledge 
the  Castilian  supremacy,  and  was  finally  conquered  by 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella  A.D.  1491;  and  the  Moorish 
dominion  in  Spain  was  ended,  after  nearly  eight  hundred 
years  of  duration.  The  Spanish  writers  gave  the  name 
of  Moors  to  their  Arabian  conquerors,  on  account  of  their 
former  residence  in  Mauritania;  but  during  the  dominion 
of  the  Moors  in  Spain,  and  while  the  rest  of  Europe  was 
steeped  in  barbarism,  learning  and  the  arts  flourished 
with  unusual  glory  among  the  polished  and  learned 
Arabians  in  the  Spanish  peninsula.  The  universities 
and  libraries  which  they  established  and  maintained  at 
Cordova  ("the  Delphi  of  the  peninsula")  and  other 
places,  were  resorted  to,  even  by  Christians,  as  the  seat 
of  Greco-Arabic  literature,  where  the  Aristotelian  phil- 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  73 

osophy  was  taught  by  Arabian  scholars  of  the  most  pro 
found  learning;  and  it  is  even  said  that  Europe  received 
from  them  the  knowledge  of  the  present  arithmetical 
characters,1  as  well  as  much  other  useful  knowledge. 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  the  Spanish  people  of  the 
Middle  Ages  were  descended  from  ancient  Iberians,  Celts, 
Carthaginians,  Romans,  Vandals,  and  Visigoths,  whose 
peculiarities  were  all  heightened  and  tinged  by  Oriental 
influences  during  their  hundreds  of  years  of  mixture  and 
intercourse  with  the  Arabians,  or  Moors,  who  were  a 
polished,  gallant,  and  chivalrous  people. 

The  oldest  language  in  all  Spain  was  that  of  the 
ancient  Cantabrians,2  the  bravest  and  rudest  of  the 

1  The  learned  Arabians  brought  the  science  of  algebra  with   them 
from  tbe  East,  and  first  introduced  it  into  Spain,  whence  it  was  carried 
into  other  European  countries.   The  oldest  known  work  upon  the  science 
of  algebra  which  we  possess  is  said  to  be  the  one  by  Diophantus  of 
Alexandria,  a  geometrician  who  is  supposed  to  have  lived  in  the  fourth 
century  :  butthe  science  is  of  Oriental  discovery,  as  its  name  —  from  the 
Arabic,  al  gabron  —  plainly  indicates;  and  Europe  is  indebted  to  the 
learned  Arabians,  who  brought  it  into  Spain,  for  its  first  acquaintance 
with  this  wonderful  and  useful  science,  as  well  as  for  much  other  useful 
and  curious  knowledge. 

2  The  Cantabrian,  which  is  also  called  the  Basque,  language  —  spoken 
by  the  inhabitants  of  the  Pyrenees  —  is  one  of  the  purest  specimens  of 
the  original  language  of  the  ancient  KeAroi,  or  Celts.    They  were  the 
primitive  inhabitants  of  the  west  of   Europe.     The   Basque  and  the 
lliberno-Celtic,  or  primitive  language  of   Ireland,  with  the  Gaelic,  or 
native  language  of  the   Highlanders   of  Scotland,  are   said  to  be  the 
purest  remains   of  the  ancient  Celtic  language  now  in  existence;   and 
they  are  almost  the  only  ones :   between  the    Hiberno-Celtic    and   the 
Scottish  Gaelic,  when  correctly  written,  there  is  really  but  very  little 
difference.    The  language  of  the  Welsh,  who  were  descended  from  the 
f'imbri,  or  primitive  inhabitants  of  Jutland,  is  said  to   bear  a   strong 
resemblance  to  the  Celtic;  and  also  the  Armoric,  spoken  by  the  descend 
ants  of  the  primitive  inhabitants  of  Brittany,  in  France,  is   said  to   be 
of  Celtic  origin.     There  was  once  a  language  called  the  Cornish,  which 


74  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

Iberian  tribes  who  inhabited  ancient  Hispania.  They 
were  the  descendants  of  the  primitive  inhabitants  of  the 
northern  mountains  of  Spain  ;  and  their  language  is  said 
to  exist  still  in  the  Basque  language,  spoken  by  the 
people  of  the  Pyrenees.  To  this  were  added  Phoenician 
and  Carthaginian  words,  and  the  whole  was  modified 
by  the  Latin  during  the  sway  of  the  Romans;1  while, 
under  the  Visigoths,  there  was  developed  a  dialect  which 
was  called  the  Romanzo,  or  Romance  language,  which 
seems  to  have  been  more  or  less  mixed  with  the  Latin 
down  to  the  time  of  the  Moorish  invasion.  When  the 
Moors  had  conquered  a  large  part  of  Spain,  their  dialect 
—  a  fine  one,  and  much  cultivated  in  poetry  —  was 
adopted,  and  soon  spoken  with  fluency,  by  the  people  in 
all  parts  of  the  peninsula  where  the  Moors  held  sway. 

was  also  of  Celtic  origin  :  it  was  spoken  by  the  ancient  inhabitants  of 
the  county  of  Cornwall,  in  the  extreme  south-west  corner  of  England; 
but  it  has  now  passed  out  of  existence. 

1  The  modern  Spanish  and  Portuguese,  as  well  as  the  modern  French 
and  Italian,  are  composed  to  a  large  extent  of  Latin  words,  many  of 
which  are  derived  from  the  Greek ;  but  they  are  generally  much  changed 
In  their  orthography,  as  well  as  in  their  inflections.  Many  of  them  were 
borrowed  from  the  Greek  by  the  Romans,  and  by  them  carried  into 
Gaul,  and  there  naturalized  during  the  five  or  six  hundred  years  that 
the  Romans  held  sway;  and,  as  they  held  Spain  in  subjection  even 
longer,  they  firmly  established  a  large  percentage  of  Latin  words  in  the 
Spanish.  Still  the  Spanish  and  Portuguese,  as  well  as  the  French  and 
Italian,  retained  many  of  their  original  Celtic  words.  But  it  must  be 
remembered  that  the  Spanish  and  Portuguese  contain,  moreover,  many 
words  which  were  introduced  by  Carthaginian  colonists  long  before 
Spain  came  under  the  Roman  sway,  as  well  as  many  which  were  after 
wards  brought  in  by  the  Arabians,  or  Moors,  who  held  the  greater  part 
of  the  peninsula  in  subjection  for  hundreds  of  years  long  after  the  Roman 
sway;  and  the  Goths,  who  drove  out  the  Romans,  also  introduced  into 
the  Spanish  very  many  words  of  Gothic  origin. 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  75 

But  the  descendants  of  the  Visigoths  retired  before  the 
conquering  Moors  to  the  northern  and  mountainous 
portions  of  the  peninsula,  and  along  the  shores  of  the 
Atlantic,  where  several  small  kingdoms  or  principalities 
were  formed,  which  were  more  or  less  united  in  their 
long  struggles  against  their  common  enemy.  This  divis 
ion  of  the  old  inhabitants  into  several  small  kingdoms 
had  its  influence  upon  the  Spanish  language;  for  there 
were  as  many  dialects  of  the  Spanish  Romanzo  as  there 
were  kingdoms  ;  but  these  dialects  gradually  blended 
with  each  other  as  the  kingdoms  became  united  against 
the  common  enemy.  One  dialect  of  the  Romanzo  devel 
oped  itself,  and  took  the  name  of  the  Galician,  and 
afterwards  became  the  language  of  the  Portuguese,  and 
remained  their  language  when  Portugal,  in  the  twelfth 
century,  formed  a  separate  kingdom. 

The  Catalonian  dialect  flourished,  and  spread  to  the 
kingdom  of  Arragon,  but  was  superseded  by  the  Cas- 
tilian  dialect  when  Arragon  and  Castile  were  united  under 
one  sceptre.  In  the  mountainous  districts  of  Castile, 
there  dwelt  a  hardy  and  valiant  race,  among  whom  the 
noble  Spanish  character  was  highly  developed;  and  their 
language  and  ballad-poetry  in  time  obtained  a  predomi 
nance  over  that  of  the  neighboring  kingdoms,  until  the 
Castilian  came  to  be  considered  the  standard  Spanish  of 
the  united  courts  of  Arragon  and  Castile,  and  was  ac 
cepted  as  the  language  of  the  learned,  while  the  others 
became  dialects  only  of  the  common  people. 

Thus  we  see  that  the  languages  of  Spain,  like  her 
ancient  inhabitants,  became  blended  and  united,  while 
the  Moors  and  their  language  were  finally  expelled  from 
the  peninsula;  but  the  Spanish  language  remained  deeply 


76  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

imbued  with  the  Oriental  clement,  on  account  of  the  hun 
dreds  of  years  of  neighborhood  and  intercourse  —  both 
in  times  of  peace  and  war  —  with  the  Arabian  Moors, 
who  were  a  people  of  far  more  learning  and  culture  than 
the  original  inhabitants  whom  they  overcame,  and  who 
were  subjected  to  Arabian  influences  for  the  better  part 
of  a  thousand  years.  Having  thus  taken  a  glance  at  the 
condition  of  Spain  and  her  inhabitants  during  the  early 
and  middle  ages,  and  considered  the  influences  which 
operated  in  forming  the  character  of  her  people  and 
language,  we  are  the  better  prepared  to  appreciate  the 
character  and  style  of  her  ancient  ballad-poetry,  which 
flourished  in  Oriental  glory  during  the  time  of  the  long 
and  bloody  struggles  between  the  Christians  and  their 
Moorish  invaders. 

If  we  are  to  credit  all  that  has  been  asserted  concern 
ing  the  antiquity  of  Spanish  ballads,  we  may  believe  that 
there  have  been  ballads  in  Spain  from  the  most  remote 
ages;  for  one  writer  upon  the  subject  —  and  he  a  Span 
iard —  contended  that  Tubal,  son  of  Japhet  and  grand 
son  of  Xoah,  arrived  in  Spain  a  hundred  and  forty  years 
after  the  Deluge,  and  twenty-one  hundred  and  sixty-three 
years  before  the  birth  of  Christ,  and  gave  the  nations 
"  a  code  of  laws  in  couplets;  "  and  Humboldt,  travelling 
in  the  Basque  provinces,  collecting  materials  for  his  work 
on  the  aboriginal  inhabitants,  was  shown  some  stanzas  — 
which  had  been  discovered  in  manuscript  —  of  the  time 
of  Augustus,  and  still  intelligible  to  the  Basque  high- 
landers. 

But  our  purpose  is  only  to  take  a  hasty  glance  of 
Spanish  ballad-poetry  during  the  time  that  Spain  was 
partly  in  possession  of  the  Moors. 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  77 

The  early  influences  towards  a  more  modern  literature 
were  given  by  the  Provencal  poets  of  the  eleventh, 
twelfth,  and  thirteenth  centuries,  in  the  south  of  France 
and  in  Spain.  They  were  sometimes  called  Romans, 
Troubadours,  Trouvatori;  and  the  Provencal  language 
was  called  the  Romana,  Romanzo,  Romance.  It  was 
derived  in  a  great  measure  from  the  Latin,  being,  in 
fact,  the  corrupt  Latin  which  was  generally  spoken  by 
the  inhabitants  of  the  south  of  Europe  after  the  over 
throw  of  the  Western  Roman  Empire;  and  it  was  the 
language  in  which  the  troubadour  poets  sang  their  fab 
liaux  and  romanzos,  —  those  lays  of  chivalry,  romance, 
and  love. 

The  oldest  of  the  troubadours,  whose  name  and 
poems  are  known  with  certainty,  was  William,  Count  of 
Poitiers  and  Guienue  (born  A.D.  1071),  though  some 
poems  of  the  same  kind,  and  of  an  earlier  date,  are  said 
to  still  exist:  but  these  are  earlier  than  any  of  the  ballads 
now  remaining  in  the  English  language;  for,  if  we  may 
believe  the  authority  quoted  by  Bishop  Percy,  the  oldest 
ballad  now  remaining  in  the  English  language  is  one 
called  "  Cuckow  Song,"  beginning  thus:  — 

"  Sumer  is  icurnen  in, 
Llmde  sing  cuccu ; 
Groweth  sed J  and  bloweth  med,2 
And  spingeth3  the  wde4  nu."  5 

And  this  is  no  earlier  than  the  time  of  Henry  III., 
which  was  in  the  thirteenth  century,  being  nearly  contem 
porary  with  the  oldest  Scottish  metrical  romance  known  to 
exist,  the  celebrated  lay  of  "  Sir  Tristrem,"  composed  by 

1  Seed.         2  Mead.         s  Springeth.         4  Wood.         6  Anew. 


78  EARLY   BALLAD-POETRY 

Thomas  of  Erceldoune  (the  earliest  Scottish  minstrel), 
called  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  which  metrical  romance 
was  preserved  in  manuscript  for  hundreds  of  years,  and 
is  now  in  the  Advocates'  Library  at  Edinburgh,  Scotland, 
having  been  presented  to  the  library  by  its  possessor, 
Lord  Auchinleck,  some  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago. 

The  oldest  Spanish  ballads  are  mostly  on  the  subjects 
of  love  and  war,  recounting  the  adventures  of  knights 
and  heroes,  and  the  passions,  pains,  and  delights  of 
lovers.  They  differ  very  much  from  the  early  English 
and  Scottish  ballads  both  in  spirit  and  tone,  as  well  as 
in  construction:  for,  while  the  English  ballads  are  usually 
in  iambic  meter,  the  Spanish  romanzo  is  generally  tro 
chaic,  though  some  of  it  is  really  iambic;  and  a  great 
peculiarity  of  Spanish  versification  is  in  the  assonance, 
whicli  the  Spanish  poets  carried  to  the  greatest  perfec 
tion,  sometimes,  indeed,  carrying  it  through  entire  lines, 
as  not  being  satisfied  with  assonant  rhymes  alone.  The 
stanzas  are  usually  composed  of  four  octo-syllabic  lines: 
but  a  fifth  and  sixth  line  were  added  whenever  it  suited 
the  poet's  convenience,  or  to  continue  the  story;  and 
lines  were  added  of  six,  of  seven,  or  even  of  more  sylla 
bles.  Although  the  stanzas  are  usually  of  four  octo 
syllabic  lines,  still  the  second  and  fourth  lines  terminat 
ing  in  the  same  rhyme,  or  in  an  assonant  rhyme,  are 
frequently  catalectic,  having  only  three  and  a  half 
trochaic  feet,  and  terminating  in  an  imperfect  trochee; 
for  the  artless  troubadours,  or  minstrel-poets,  paid  little 
attention  to  the  correctness  of  quantity  when  weaving 
some  well-known  heroic  story  or  tender  tale  of  love  into 
stanzas,  which  they  sang  to  delighted  and  uncritical 
audiences,  and  usually  with  the  accompaniment  of  the 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  79 

"  guiterne  Moresche,"  or  guitarra, — an  instrument  re 
sembling  the  cithera,  or  Ki6apa,  of  the  ancients,  —  as  their 
Carthaginian  or  Egyptian  ancestors  had  done  thousands 
of  years  before.1 

As  has  already  been  said,  there  are  extensive  and  rich 
stores  of  ballads  in  the  Spanish  language,  great  numbers 
of  which  originated  during  the  long  and  bloody  struggles 
of  the  Christians  against  the  Moors,  and  which  recount 
the  chivalrous  deeds  of  both  Moors  and  Christians.  While 
many  of  these  are  truthfully  historical,  some  of  them  are 
evidently  highly  romantic;  such,  for  example,  as  the 
ballad  of  "  The  Moorish  Calaynos,"  and  the  one  of  the 
"  Count  Arnaldos,"  where  "more  is  meant  than  greets 
the  ear."  All  of  the  stanzas  in  "Count  Arnaldos"  are 
so  truly  poetical  and  sonorous,  that  the  entire  ballad  will 
be  given  here,  even  at  the  risk  of  spinning  out  this  arti 
cle  to  a  wearisome  length.  It  is  as  follows:  — 

"  Who  had  ever  such  adventure, 

Holy  priest  or  virgin  nun, 

As  befell  the  Count  Arnaldos 

At  the  rising  of  the  sun  ? 

"  On  his  wrist  the  hawk  was  hooded; 

Forth  with  horn  and  hound  went  he, 
When  he  saw  a  stately  galley 
Sailing  on  the  silent  sea. 

"  Sail  of  satin,  mast  of  cedar, 

Burnished  poop  of  beaten  gold,  — 
Many  a  morn  you'll  hood  your  falcon 
Ere  you  such  a  hark  behold. 

1  Musical  stringed  instruments,  very  similar  in  form  to  the  guitar, 
were  depicted  upon  Egyptian  tombs  of  more  than  two  thousand  years 
before  the  birth  of  Christ. 


80  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

"  Sails  of  satin,  masts  of  cedar, 

Golden  poops  may  come  again, 
But  mortal  ear  no  more  shall  listen 
To  yon  gray-haired  sailor's  strain. 

"Heart  may  beat,  and  eye  may  glisten, 

Faith  is  strong,  and  Hope  is  free ; 
But  mortal  ear  no  more  shall  listen 
To  the  song  that  rules  the  sea. 

"When  the  gray-haired  sailor  chanted, 

Every  wind  was  hushed  to  sleep ; 
Like  a  virgin's  bosom,  panted 
All  the  wide-reposing  deep. 

"  Bright  in  beauty  rose  the  star-fish 

From  her  green  cave  down  below, 
Right  above  the  eagle  poised  him,  — 
Holy  music  charmed  them  so. 

"  '  Stately  galley !  glorious  galley! 

God  hath  poured  his  grace  on  thee ! 
Thou  alone  mayst  scorn  the  perils 
Of  the  dread  devouring  sea! 

"  '  False  Almeria's  reefs  and  shallows, 

Black  Gibraltar's  giant  rocks, 
Sound  and  sand-bank,  gulf  and  whirlpool, 
All  —  my  glorious  galley  mocks! 

"  '  For  the  sake  of  God,  our  maker ! ' 

(Count  Arnaldos'  cry  was  strong,) 
'  Old  man,  let  me  be  partaker 
In  the  secret  of  thy  song!' 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  81 

"  '  Count  Arnaldos !  Count  Arnaldos! 

Hearts  I  read,  and  thoughts  I  know; 
Wouldst  thou  learn  the  ocean  secret, 
In  our  galley  thou  must  go.'  " 

That  is  poetry !  poetry,  indeed,  wherein  is  shadowed 
forth  some  religious  allegory;  but  Religion  never  yet 
called  to  her  aid  a  sweeter  muse. 

Not  less  beautiful  than  the  foregoing,  although  of 
an  entirely  different  character,  is  the  Moorish  ballad, 
"The  Bull-Fight  of  Gazul,"  wherein  is  described  very 
minutely  one  of  those  bull-fights  which  were  once  the 
favorite  amusement  of  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  the 
Spanish  peninsula,  in  whose  exciting  dangers  the  Moors, 
after  the  conquest,  learned  to  take  as  much  delight  as 
did  the  native  Spaniards.  The  bull-fight  here  described 
seerns  to  have  been  held  in  Granada,  that  last  proud 
city  that  was  held  by  the  Moors  in  Spain ;  and  by  it  we 
can  see  how  surely  an  ancient  ballad  can  preserve,  and 
depict  to  future  ages,  the  customs  and  manners  of  com 
munities  in  ages  long  gone  by.  For  want  of  space,  only 
certain  stanzas  selected  from  this  ballad  can  be  given 
here.  The  Alcayde  Gazul,  who  is  the  hero  of  this  bal 
lad,  was  a  Moorish  knight  of  renown,  who  figures  in  the 
"  Ilistoria  de  las  Guerras  Civiles  de  Granada;  "  and  the 
bravery  and  dexterity  with  which  he  meets  and  van 
quishes  the  furious  and  enraged  bulls,  is  repaid  by  the 
plaudits  of  the  noble  spectators,  and  the  graceful  smiles 
of  his  proud  "  ladye  fayre,"  who  bestows  upon  him 
first  "the  scarf  whiter  than  the  snow,"  and,  afterwards, 
"  the  ring  of  price,"  from  her  own  fair  hand:  — 


82  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

"King  Almanzor  of  Granada,  he   liath  bid   the   trumpet 

sound ; 
He  hath  summoned  all  the  Moorish  lords  from  hills  and 

plains  around : 

From  Vega  and  Sierra,  from  Betis  and  Xenil, 
They  have  come  with  helm  and  cuirass  of  gold  and  twisted 

steel. 


"  Eight  Moorish  lords  of  valor  tried,  with  stalwart  arm  and 

true, 
The  onset  of    the    beasts    abide    as    they  come    rushing 

through : 
The  deeds  they've  done,  the  spoils  they've  won,  fill  all  with 

hope  and  trust; 
Yet,  ere  high  in  heaven  appears  the  sun,  they  all  have  bit 

the  dust! 


"Then  sounds  the  trumpet  clearly,  then  clangs  the  loud 

tambour: 
Make  room,  make  room  for  Gazul !  throw  wide,  throw  wide 

the  door ! 
Blow,  blow  the  trumpet  clearer  still!   more  loudly  strike 

the  drum ! 
The  Alcayde  of  Algava  to  fight  the  bull  doth  come. 


"  And  first  before  the  king  he  passed,  with  reverence  stoop 
ing  low, 

And  next  he  bowed  him  to  the  queen,  and  the  infantas  all 
a-row ; 

Then  to  his  lady's  grace  he  turned,  and  she  to  him  did 
throw 

A  scarf,  from  out  her  balcony,  was  whiter  than  the  snow. 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  S3 

"With  the  life-blood  of  slaughtered  lords  all  slippery  is  the 

sand, 

Yet  proudly  in  the  center  now  hath  Gazul  ta'en  his  stand; 
And  ladies  look  with  heaving  breast,  and  lords  with  anxious 

eye; 
But  firmly  he   extends   his   arm, — his  look  is   calm   and 

high. 


"Three  bulls  against  the  knight  are  loosed,  and  two  come 

roaring  on ; 

He  rises  high  in  stirrup,  forth  stretching  his  rejon  ; 
Each  furious  beast  upon  the  breast  he  deals   him  such  a 

blow, 
He  blindly  totters,  and  gives  back  across  the  sand  to  go. 


"'Turn,  Gazul,  turn!'  the  people  cry.  The  third  comes 
up  behind ; 

Low  to  the  sand  his  head  holds  he,  his  nostrils  snuff  the 
wind ; 

The  mountaineers  that  lead  the  steers  without  stand  whis 
pering  low, 

'  Xow  thinks  this  proud  Alcayde  to  stun  Harpado  l  so ! ' 


"  Dark  is  his  hide  on  either  side;  but  the  blood  within  doth 

boil, 
And  the  dun  hide  glows  as  if  on  fire,  as  he  paws  to  the 

turmoil; 

His  eyes  are  jet,  and  they  are  set  in  crystal  rings  of  snow, 
But  now  they  stare  with  one  red  glare  of  brass  upon  the 

foe. 

1  The  name  of  the  bull. 


84  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

"Now  stops  the  drum;  close,  close  they  come;  thrice  meet, 
and  thrice  give  back ; 

The  white  foam  of  Harpado  lies  on  the  charger's  breast  of 
black, 

The  white  foam  of  the  charger  on  Harpado' s  front  of 
dun: 

Once  more  advance  upon  his  lance,  —  once  more,  thou  fear 
less  one ! 

"Once  more,  once  more,  in  dust  and  gore  to  ruin  must 

thou  reel ! 
In  vain,  in  vain,  thou  tearest  now  the  sand  with  furious 

heel! 

In  vain,  in  vain,  thou  noble  beast!  I  see,  I  see  thec  stagger: 
Now  keen  and  cold  thy  neck  must  hold  the  stern  Alcayde's 

dagger! 

"They  have  slipped  a  noose  around  his  feet,  six  horses  are 

brought  in, 

And  away  they  drag  Harpado  with  a  loud  and  joyful  din : 
Now  stoop  thee,  lady,   from  thy  stand,  the  ring  of  price 

bestow 
Upon  Gazul  of  Algava  that  hath  laid  Ilarpado  low!  " 


As  the  last  cadence  of  this  spirit-stirring  song  rings 
in  the  memory  of  the  imaginative  reader,  so  vivid,  thrill 
ing,  and  truly  poetic  are  the  descriptions,  that,  in  imagi 
nation  almost  can  there  be  heard  an  echo  from  those 
plaudits  of  five  hundred  years  agone;  and  the  excited 
eye  of  fancy  will  behold  that  brilliant  audience  of  rich- 
robed  lords  and  "  ladyes  f ayre ;  "  and  the  excited  mind 
will  be  cognizant  of  the  sudden  hush  and  silence  when 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  85 

the  loved  one  of  Gazul  "stoops  from  the  stand"  to 
bestow  "  the  ring  of  price"  upon  her  noble  and  proud 
Moorish  cavalier. 

I  regret  the  want  of  space  within  the  intended  limits 
of  this  article  to  give  additional  specimens  from  the 
rich  mines  of  Spanish  ballad-poetry  that  lie  open  to  the 
literary  explorer. 

Hundreds  of  them  have  been  translated  into  the  Ger 
man  and  English,  as  well  as  into  other  languages:  but, 
to  be  appreciated,  they  should  be  read  and  understood 
in  their  own  peculiar  and  musical  native  Spanish  rhymes ; 
for,  so  read,  they  possess  a  charm  that  is  lost  even  in  the 
best  of  translations.  But  I  cannot  close  even  a  hasty 
account  of  the  early  ballad-poetry  of  Spain,  and  leave  a 
theme  so  deeply  interesting,  without  some  short  comment 
upon  the  numerous  ballads  which  relate  to  the  times  and 
history  of  the  great  and  immortal  Spanish  hero,  the 
world-renowned  and  ever-invincible  Cid,  Ruy  Diaz  de 
Bivar,  called,  by  his  own  king,  El  Campeador,  "  the  hero 
without  an  equal;  "  and,  by  the  Moorish  kings  whom  he 
vanquished,  El  mio  Cid.  The  ballads  that  sing  his  fame 
are  reckoned  by  the  hundreds;  for  he,  in  conjunction 
with  his  noble  and  far-famed  war-horse  Babieca,  has 
become  the  central  figure  of  his  time  in  all  Spanish 
history,  romance,  and  song.  In  him  were  concentrated 
all  the  elevated  and  noble  qualities  of  the  best  age  of 
chivalry,  —  an  elevated  valor  that  knew  no  fear,  united 
with  a  noble  generosity  towards  the  weak  or  vanquished ; 
a  deep  and  unwavering  loyalty  to  his  king  and  country, 
joined  to  an  unshaken  fervor  and  devotion  to  his  religion  ; 
a  lofty  and  noble  pride  and  self-reliance,  wherein  was 
mingled  a  deep  and  lasting  scorn  for  every  thing  that 


86  EARLY   BALLAD-POETRY 

was  dishonorable  or  base;  and,  blended  with  all  the 
noble  qualities  which  made  hitn  the  beau  ideal  of  knight- 
errantry,  was  an  indomitable  and  childlike  love  of  truth, 
and  a  deep  and  unwavering  love  and  devotion  to  the 
fair,  which  made  him,  above  all  others,  "  a  chevalier  sans 
peur  et  sans  reproche  " 

The  great  and  immortal  Cid  Ruy  Diaz,  or  —  to  give 
him  his  name  and  cognomen  in  full  —  Don  Rodrigo  Diaz 
de  Bivar,  el  mio  Cid,  Campeador,  was  the  flower  of 
Spanish  chivalry,  and  the  model  of  all  the  heroic  virtues 
of  his  age;  and  he  has  been  celebrated  in  chronicle, 
romance,  and  soug,  for  the  past  eight  hundred  years. 
He  was  born  at  Burgos,  A.D.  1025  or  1026;  for  authori 
ties  differ  as  to  the  precise  year. 

At  the  time  of  his  birth  the  greater  part  of  Spain  was 
in  the  possession  of  the  Arabians,  or  Moors,  who  had 
invaded  it  nearly  four  hundred  years  before;  and,  con 
quering  city  after  city  and  province  after  province,  had 
driven  the  ancient  inhabitants  before  them  into  the 
northern  and  mountainous  portions  of  the  peninsula, 
where  they  maintained  several  petty  kingdoms  or  princi 
palities. 

The  county  of  Castile  — anciently  called  Burgos  —  be 
came  a  separate  kingdom  in  1028;  and  Ferdinand  I. 
became  its  king,  thereby  founding  the  Castilian  mon 
archy;  and  for  him  the  great  Cid  conquered  a  part  of 
Portugal,  and  wrested  many  fair  cities  and  provinces 
from  the  Moors,  which,  by  the  valor  of  his  arms,  were 
joined  to  the  territories  of  his  king;  and,  upheld  and 
borne  onwards  by  his  prowess,  the  ancient  Gothic  in 
habitants,  who  had  remained  unconquered  in  the  north 
ern  counties,  made  gradual  and  constant  progress,  and 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  87 

reconquered  many  fair  cities  and  provinces  which  had 
long  been  held  by  their  Moslem  invaders,  to  whom  the 
name  and  person  of  the  Cid  became  a  lasting  terror  and 
a  signal  of  sure  defeat;  for  he  soon  gained  the  name  of 
the  invincible,  and  whomsoever  he  attacked  he  was  sure 
to  vanquish;  for,  as  say  or  sing  the  ballads  which  re 
count  his  fame,  he  was  a  — 

"Mighty  victor  never  vanquished, 

Bulwark  of  his  native  land; 
Shield  of  Spain,  her  boast  and  glory, 

Knight  of  the  far-dreaded  brand; 
Venging  scourge  of  Moors  and  traitors, 

Mighty  thunderbolt  of  war, 
Mirror  bright  of  chivalry, 

Ruy  el  Cid,  Campeador!" 

The  life  and  exploits  of  the  Cid  were  in  time  made 
more  familiar  to  the  European  world  by  the  celebrated 
tragedy  of  the  great  Corneille,  "Le  Cid,"  which  has 
held  its  place  upon  the  classic  stage  of  France  for  nearly 
three  hundred  years,  and  i&  familiar  to  all  scholars  who 
pretend  to  a  knowledge  of  the  French  language  the 
world  over. 

The  Cid's  father  was  Don  Diego  Lainez,  a  renowned 
warrior  in  his  day,  and  descended  from  the  great  Lain 
Calvo,  who  represented  one  of  the  most  ancient  and 
noble  families  of  Spain;  and  his  mother  was  also  nobly 
descended:  so  Rodrigo  had  the  best  and  purest  of  Span 
ish  blood  in  his  veins. 

While  he  was  yet  a  youth,  under  twenty  years  of  age, 
his  father,  who,  through  age  and  infirmities  had  become 
incapable  of  longer  bearing  arms,  was  grossly  insulted 


88  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

\ 

by  the  proud  and  domineering  Count  of  Gormaz,  who 
•went  so  far  as  to  even  give  him  a  soitfflet,  or  slap  of 
the  hand  upon  the  face;  and  that,  too,  in  presence  of  the 
king  and  court,  — an  indignity  which,  in  the  case  of  an 
hidalgo  of  Spain,  only  blood  could  wash  away,  and  over 
which  the  Cid's  father  brooded  so  deeply  after  his  return 
from  court  to  his  own  castle,  that  — 

"Sleep  was  banished  from  his  eyelids; 

Xot  a  mouthful  could  he  taste ; 

There  he  sat  with  downcast  visage: 

Direly  had  he  been  disgraced. 

"Never  stirred  he  from  his  chamber; 

With  no  friends  would  he  converse, 
Lest  the  breath  of  his  dishonor 
Should  pollute  them  with  its  curse." 

When  Rodrigo  learned  the  cause  of  his  father's  gloom, 
his  noble  blood  was  fired  by  the  disgrace  which  had  been 
cast  upon  his  family;  and,  arming  himself,  he  went  forth 
in  search  of  the  haughty  offender,  who  was  none  other 
than  the  father  of  Ximena  Gomez,  his  own  fair  lady 
love;  but,  obeying  the  dictates  of  honor  rather  than 
those  of  love,  he  sought  out  the  offending  lord,  and  ad 
dressed  him  in  this  wise:  — 

"  How  durst  thou  to  smite  my  father  ? 

Craven  caitiff !  know  that  none 
Unto  him  shall  do  dishonor 
While  I  live,  save  God  alone. 

"  For  tins  wron.sc  I  must  have  vengeance  : 

Traitor,  here  I  thee  defy ! 
With  thy  blood  alone  my  sire 
Can  wash  out  his  infamy !  " 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  89 

The  haughty  Count  of  Gormaz,  laughing  at  the  Cid's 
youth  and  inexperience,  affected  to  despise  his  threats, 
•whereupon  Rodrigo  told  him  that  those  who  had  noble 
escutcheons  would  never  brook  a  wrong;  and,  calling 
upon  him  to  defend  himself,  he  set  upon  him  so  valiantly 
that  the  imperious  count  was  soon  overthrown  and  slain. 
Cutting  off  the  head  of  his  antagonist,  he  bore  it  to  his 
own  father,  whom  he  addressed  thus :  — 

"Lay  aside  this  grievous  sorrow: 

Lo  !  thine  honor  is  secure; 
Vengeance  hast  thou  now  obtained, 
From  all  stain  of  shame  art  pure. 

"Well  have  I  avenged  thee,  father! 
"Well  have  sped  me  in  the  fight; 
For  to  him  is  vengeance  certain 
Who  doth  arm  himself  with  right." 

The  father  of  Rodrigo,  deeming  his  lost  honor  restored 
by  the  avenging  arm  of  his  brave  son,  thus  addresses 
Rodrigo:  — 

"  At  the  chief  place  of  my  table, 

Sit  thee  henceforth  in  my  stead; 
He  who  such  a  head  hath  brought  me, 
Of  my  house  shall  be  the  head." 

But  Rodrigo,  when  he  came  to  reflect  upon  what  he 
had  done,  was  himself  plunged  in  gloom;  for,  although 
he  had  by  his  valor  and  prowess  vindicated  the  honor 
of  his  house,  and  vanquished  the  haughty  and  renowned 
Don  Gomez  in  fair  fight,  yet  he  felt,  that,  in  so  doing, 
he  had  taken  the  life  of  the  father  of  his  own  fair  and 


90  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

well-beloved  Ximena,  who  was  dearer  to  him  than  all 
the  world  beside;  and  how  could  he  hope  now  to  ever 
possess  her  as  his  bride,  with  his  own  hands  red  with  her 
father's  blood,  although  that  blood  had  been  shed  in  all 
honor,  and  according  to  the  code  of  the  times  which 
governed  the  actions  of  all  honorable  men?  And  now, 
although  he  despaired,  for  the  time  being,  of  possessing 
her  for  his  bride,  yet  he  found  himself  utterly  unable  to 
resign  all  hopes  of  eventually  regaining  her,  and  equally 
unable  to  drive  her  fair  image  from  his  tortured  mind; 
for,  in  the  language  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  modern 
bards,  — 

"  He  who  stems  a  stream  with  sand, 
And  fetters  flame  with  flaxen  band, 
Has  yet  a  harder  task  to  prove, 
By  firm  resolve  to  conquer  love!" 

We  shall  see  how  Rodrigo  sped  him  in  such  difficult 
extremity.  The  ballads  relate,  that,  when  the  fair  Ximena 
learned  by  whose  hand  her  father  had  been  "done  to 
death,"  she  felt  herself  also  in  honor  bound  to  take  coun 
sel  of  her  head  rather  than  of  her  heart;  and  so,  in  due 
time,  she  presented  herself  before  the  good  King  Fer 
nando,  clothed  all  in  weeds  of  deepest  mourning,  and 
followed  by  her  train  of  maidens  in  similar  array,  to 
claim  vengeance  upon  him  who  had  deprived  her  of  a 
father  so  deeply  loved;  and,  falling  upon  her  knees  before 
the  king,  she  thus  cried  out  for  justice:  — 

"  Justice,  king!  I  sue  for  justice, 

Vengeance  on  a  traitorous  knight. 
Grant  it  me!  so  shall  thy  children 
Thrive,  and  prove  thy  soul's  delight. 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  91 

"  Like  to  God  himself  are  monarchs 

Set  to  govern  011  the  earth,  — 
All  the  vile  and  base  to  punish, 
And  to  guerdon  virtuous  worth. 

"  But  the  king  who  doth  not  justice 

Ne'er  the  scepter  more  should  sway, 
Ne'er  should  nobles  pay  him  homage, 
Vassals  ne'er  his  bests  obey." 

But  the  good  king  —  since  he  was  notable  to  restore 
her  father  to  life,  and  not  wishing  to  punish  or  banish 
so  valorous  and  useful  a  knight  as  Rodrigo  was  begin 
ning  to  show  himself  to  be — -puts  off  the  fair  Ximena, 
most  likely  with  many  fair  promises,  never  intended  to 
be  fulfilled,  trusting,  like  a  wise  monarch,  to  time  and 
circumstances  to  soften  and  change  her  mind;  and,  as 
the  sequel  proved,  he  did  not  "  lean  upon  a  broken  reed." 
Nevertheless  Ximena,  impatient  of  delay,  —  feminine 
trait,  —  returns  again  and  again  to  urge  her  complaints 
against  Rodrigo,  whom  she  still,  however,  dearly,  though 
secretly,  loves ;  as  the  king,  in  truth,  all  along  suspects. 
Finally,  on  the  occasion  of  one  of  those  dolorous  visits  to 
urge  her  suit  against  poor  Rodrigo,  she  breaks  out  in  this 
wise:  — 

"  King!  six  moons  have  passed  away 

Since  my  sire  was  reft  of  life 
By  a  youth  whom  thou  dost  cherish 
For  such  deeds  of  murderous  strife. 

"  Four  times  have  I  cried  thee  justice; 

Four  times  have  I  sued  in  vain : 
Promises  I  get  in  plenty; 
Justice,  none  can  I  obtain. 


92  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

"Every  day,  at  early  morning, 
To  despite  me  more,  I  wist, 
He  who  slew  my  sire  doth  ride  by 
With  a  falcon  on  his  fist. 

"  At  my  tender  doves  he  flies  it; 
Many  of  them  hath  it  slain: 
See!  their  blood  hath  dyed  my  garments 
With  full  many  a  crimson  stain." 

The  good  king,  seeing  by  this  that  Rodrigo  was  flying 
his  falcon  at  her  doves,  really  with  an  eye  to  their  mis 
tress,  hesitated  no  longer,  but  came  at  once  pat  to  the 
point,  as  the  ballads  relate,  in  this  wise:  — 

"  Say  no  more,  O  noble  damsel! 

Thy  complaints  would  soften  down 
Bosoms  were  they  hard  as  iron, 
Melt  them  were  they  cold  as  stone. 

"  If  I  cherish  Don  Rodrigo, 

For  thy  weal  I  keep  the  boy! 
Soon,  I  trow,  will  this  same  gallant 
Turn  thy  mourning  into  joy." 

And  so,  in  fact,  it  proved,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of 
all  concerned;  for  the  quarrel  —  like  most  love-quarrels, 
when  rightly  managed  by  older  heads,  who  know,  of 
course,  just  what  is  wanted  —  was  easily  made  up:  and 
the  happy  pair  were  in  due  time  united  in  those  bonds 
which  give  full  liberty  to  quarrel  in  the  future  ad  libitum 
without  the  interference  of  king,  commons,  or  neighbors. 
And  the  lovers,  made  happy  after  long  months  of  separa 
tion,  met,  and  embraced  each  other  tenderly:  this  was 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  93 

before  their  marriage,  mind  you;  and  Rodrigo,  gazing 
fondly  upon  his  fair  fiancee,  thus  addressed  her:  — 

"  I  did  slay  thy  sire,  Ximena, 

But,  God  wot,  not  traitorously; 
'T\vas  in  open  fight  I  slew  him: 
Sorely  had  he  wronged  me. 

"  A  man  I  slew,  a  man  I  give  thee: 

Here  I  stand  thy  will  to  bide! 

Thou,  in  place  of  a  dead  father, 

Hast  a  hushand  by  thy  side." 

And  Ximena,  like  a  sensible  and  good  girl  as  she 
really  was,  blushed  and  smiled,  and  smiled  and  blushed; 
and  thought,  no  doubt,  as  many  a  pretty  maiden  has 
thought  since,  that  a  young  and  valiant  husband  was 
far  better,  in  her  case,  than  an  old  father.  And  so  the 
nuptials  of  the  happy  pair  were  celebrated  with  great 
pomp  and  rejoicing,  the  bishop  himself  tying  the  hy 
meneal  knot,  to  make  sure  of  its  strength,  and  the  king 
giving  away  the  bride;  and  the  streets  through  which 
they  were  to  pass  were  strewed  with  sweet  cypress,  and 
the  windows  of  the  houses  along  their  route  were  hung 
with  cloth  of  gold;  while  the  women  showered  wheat 
upon  the  bride  as  she  passed  along,  in  token  of  a  wish 
that  she  might  prove  prolific;  and,  to  adopt  the  language 
of  a  modern  distich,  slightly  altered  to  make  it  fit  the 
occasion, — 

"  Minstrels  sang,  and  music  played. 
To  think  how  happy  she  was  made." 

While,  as  to  Rodrigo,  the  ballads  of  those  times  re 
count  that  — 


94  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

"All  approved  well  his  prudence 
And  extolled  him  with  zeal: 
Thus  they  celebrate  the  nuptials 
Of  Rodrigo  of  Castile." 

But  we  must  leave  the  song  half  sung,  and  the  tale  half 
told;  for  the  purpose  of  this  essay  is,  not  to  give  a  history 
of  the  Cid's  life,  but  only  to  call  the  attention  of  the 
reader  to  the  very  many  early  Spanish  ballads  upon  the 
subject,  and  at  the  same  time  give  a  few  quotations  from 
them  to  exemplify  their  literary  value  and  poetic  beauty; 
for  it  is  well  known  that  Dr.  Southey  has  spoken  of  them 
in  very  disparaging  terms.  But  we  cannot  help  believing 
that  he  has  unjustly  undervalued  their  real  worth  and 
poetic  beauty;  for  historical  worth  and  real  poetic  beauty 
many  of  them  certainly  possess,  as  a  large  proportion  of 
readers  who  take  the  pains  to  make  their  acquaintance 
•will,  without  doubt,  be  convinced.  Aside  from  the 
numerous  ballads  relating  thereto,  the  life  and  adven 
tures  of  the  Cid  also  form  the  subject  of  one  of  the 
oldest,  if  not  the  oldest,  long  and  continuous  Castilian 
poem  now  extant,  "  Poema  del  Cid  el  Campeador;  "  but 
with  that  we  are  not  at  present  concerned,  as  this  essay 
has  for  its  subject  only  ballad-poetry. 

Although  we  are  not  writing  the  Cid's  history,  still  it 
may  not  be  uninteresting  to  the  reader  to  be  told  that 
his  life  was  long,  and,  for  the  most  part,  a  prosperous 
one,  though  slanderous  tongues  often  did  him  wrong;  and 
those  who  were  envious  and  jealous  of  his  great  valor 
and  illustrious  fame,  often  succeeded,  for  a  time,  in 
bringing  upon  him  the  disfavor  of  his  king,  so  that  he 
felt,  at  times,  to  the  fullest  extent,  the  truth  of  the  great 
poet's  dictum,  that  — 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  95 

"  He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops  shall  find 

The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapped  in  clouds  and  snow; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below!  " 

But  he  never  failed  to  re-appear  in  time  with  all  his 
truth  and  valor  and  loyalty  so  resplendent  as  to  burst 
through  and  dissipate  all  the  dark  clouds  that  calumny 
had  been  able  to  gather,  for  a  time,  around  his  name  and 
fame;  and  in  the  end  he  could  truthfully  say,  like  royal 
Richard,  — 

"Now  all  the  clouds  that  lowered  upon  our  house 
Are  in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean  buried." 

The  Cid  spent  the  long  years  of  his  vigorous  manhood 
and  old  age  in  almost  continuous  warfare  against  the 
Moslem  invaders  of  Spain,  and  the  enemies  of  his  king; 
and  one  of  his  latest  great  achievements  was  the  wrest 
ing  of  the  rich  and  proud  city  of  Valencia  from  the 
Moors,  after  a  long  and  bloody  siege  of  many  months; 
and  of  Valencia  he  held  possession  till  his  dying  day, 
although  the  Arabians,  more  than  once,  exerted  them 
selves  boldly  to  regain  it.  And  at  one  time  the  great 
King  of  Tunis  came  to  besiege  it,  landing  on  the  Spanish 
shores  with  a  numberless  host  of  foot,  and  fifty  thousand 
horse;  but,  nothing  daunted,  the  Cid  prepared  to  meet 
and  repel  them,  saying,  that  "the  greater  the  number 
of  the  enemy,  the  greater  would  be  the  spoils;"  and, 
taking  Ximena  and  his  two  daughters  to  the  top  of  the 
citadel,  he  pointed  out  to  them  with  great  delight  the 
innumerable  hosts  of  their  invaders;  and,  as  the  ladies 


96  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

were  alarmed  at  such  a  warlike  array,  he  said,  to  cheer 
and  comfort  them ,  — 

"Fear  thou  not,  my  loved  Ximena; 
Fear  not  ye,  my  daughters  dear! 
While  I  live  to  wield  Tix.ona, 
Ye,  I  wot,  have  naught  to  fear." 

Tizona  was  the  famous  sword  which  he  won  in  battle 
from  a  Moorish  king  years  before.  It  was  a  blade  so  cele 
brated,  and  of  such  superior  quality  and  worth,  that  he 
never  failed  to  wield  it  himself  in  all  his  battles  after 
wards,  and  always  with  unfailing  success.  Xo  wonder 
that  the  ladies  were  alarmed  at  the  immensity  of  the  host 
now  arrayed  against  them;  for  the  ballads  say,  that  — 

"  Toward  the  sea  they  cast  their  own  eyes,  — 

Foes  did  swarm  along  the  coast; 
Round  about  the  town  they  looked,  — 
Everywhere  a  mighty  host. 

"Tents  were  pitching,  trenches  digging, 

All  to  battle  did  prepare; 
Shouts  of  men,  and  war-steeds  neighing, 
Drums  and  trumpets  rent  the  air." 

But  the  Cid,  nothing  daunted,  prepared  himself  and 
his  own  invincible  warriors  to  repel  the  invading  hosts; 
for,  says  the  ballad,  — 

"  But  my  good  Cid,  all  perceiving, 

Rushed  on  the  enemy; 
'Gainst  their  ranks  he  spurred  Babieca, 
Shouting  loud  his  battle-cry,  — 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  97 

"  '  Aid  us,  God  and  Santiago! ' 

Many  a  Paynim  he  laid  low ; 
To  dispatch  a  foe  he  never 
Needed  to  repeat  his  blow. 

"  Well  it  pleased  the  Cid  to  find  him 
Mounted  on  his  steed  once  more, 
With  his  right  arm  to  the  elbow 
Crimsoned  all  with  Moorish  gore." 

And  so  Valencia  was  relieved,  the  Moslems  routed,  and 
great  were  the  spoils  that  were  captured  with  their  de 
serted  camps.  But  we  must  pass  over  many  interesting 
incidents  in  the  Cid's  life;  such  as  the  marriage  of  his 
daughters,  and  his  noble  vengeance  upon  their  cowardly 
husbands,  his  own  exile  from  court,  the  second  marriage 
of  his  daughters,  etc.;  and  refrain,  for  want  of  space, 
from  quoting  many  a  noble  ballad  relating  thereunto, 
which  it  irks  us  very  much  to  leave  unsung,  but  which, 
from  the  necessity  of  making  this  notice  brief,  must  be 
passed  over  in  silence.  Still,  as  we  draw  toward  the  close, 
and  prepare  to  say  adieu  to  a  theme  so  loved,  we  linger 
still,  and  hesitate  to  lay  aside  the  pen,  as  one  who  leaves 
the  threshold  that  he  loves,  to  wander  far  and  long,  will 
hesitate,  and  turn,  and  linger  still  to  take  one  parting 
look  of  things  most  dear;  so  we  —  as  some  old  ballad 
rises  in  the  mind,  to  stir  the  blood  by  means  of  its  deep 
pathos,  or  its  chivalric  memories  of  scenes  and  ages  long 
gone  by  —  still  hesitate,  and  linger  for  a  moment,  and 
would  fain  prolong  the  pleasure  which  we  ourselves  have 
well  experienced  in  studying  these  old  songs,  which  Dr. 
Southey,  in  his  unjust  condemnation,  has  pronounced  so 
worthless  and  so  poor. 


98  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

Again  was  the  Cid  besieged  in  his  own  fair  city  of 
Valencia,  —  this  time  by  a  numerous  host  of  Moslems, 
headed  by  a  King  of  Morocco;  and  it  seems,  by  the  tone 
of  the  ballads  relating  to  his  later  years,  as  if  there  was 
a  deep,  rich  strain  of  melancholy  stealing  over  him 
toward  the  close,  to  permanently  pervade  and  sadden 
that  great  soul,  once  so  ardent  and  so  martial.  Still, 
with  some  of  his  old-time  bearing  left,  he  sends  back 
this  reply  to  the  enemy,  who  demands  the  surrender  of 
his  beloved  Valencia:  — 

"  '  Let  your  king  prepare  his  battle; 
I  shall  straightway  order  mine: 
Right  dear  hath  Valencia  cost  me; 
Think  not  I  will  it  resign. 

"  '  Hard  the  strife  and  sore  the  slaughter; 

But  I  won  the  victory, 
Thanks  to  God  and  to  the  valor 
Of  Castilian  chivalry!'  " 

But,  notwithstanding  this  bold  reply,  we  can  see  that 
his  noble  mind  is  sorely  oppressed  with  unusual  sadness ; 
for,  while  he  is  arming  himself  for  the  contest,  he  thus 
addresses  Ximena,  who  is  aiding  him  in  doing  on  his 
warlike  harness:  — 

"  '  If,  with  deadly  wounds  in  battle, 

I  this  day  my  breath  resign, 
To  San  Pedro  de  Cardefia 
Bear  me  straight,  Ximena  mine. 

"  '  Wail  me  not,  lest  some  base  panic 

On  my  chiefless  warriors  seize, 
But  amid  the  call  to  battle 
Make  my  funeral  obsequies. 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  99 

"  'This,  my  loved  Tizon,  whose  gloamings 

Every  foeman's  heart  appall; 
Never  let  it  lose  its  glory, 
Ne'er  to  hands  of  women  fall. 

"'Should  God  will  that  Babieca 

Quit  the  strife  alone  this  day, 
And,  without  his  lord  returning, 
At  thy  gate  aloud  should  neigh,  — 

"  '  Open  to  him  and  caress  him, 

Let  him  well  be  housed  and  fed; 
He  who  well  his  master  serveth 
Eight  well  should  be  guerdoned. 

"  'Dear  one,  give  me  now  thy  blessing! 

Dry  thine  eyes,  and  cease  to  mourn ! ' 
Then  my  Cid,  he  spurred  to  battle : 
Grant  him,  God,  a  safe  return!" 

And  he  was  again  victorious,  and  returned  in  safety  to 
Ximena,  notwithstanding  all  his  gloomy  forebodings,  so 
unusual  heretofore,  in  all  his  warlike  career.  But,  feeling 
now  that  he  was  getting  old  and  feeble,  he  knew  that  the 
end  could  not  be  far  away;  and  so,  like  a  good  soldier, 
he  made  his  preparations  for  the  final  conflict,  and,  call 
ing  his  friends  around  him,  he  thus  addressed  them:  — 

'"He  who  spareth  no  man  living, 

Kings  or  nobles  though  they  be, 
At  my  door  at  length  is  knocking, 
And  I  hear  him  calling  me. 

"  'Friends,  I  sorrow  not  to  leave  you; 

If  this  life  an  exile  be, 
We  who  leave  it  do  but  journey 
Homeward  to  our  family.'  " 


100  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

But,  knowing  that  their  enemies  would  take  advantage 
of  his  death  to  regain  Valencia,  he  gave  these  directions 
for  the  guidance  of  his  friends,  when  his  right  arm 
would  no  longer  be  able  to  shield  or  succor  them:  — 

"  'Should  the  Moorish  king  assail  you, 
Call  your  hosts,  and  man  the  wall; 
Shout  aloud,  and  let  the  trumpets 
Sound  a  joyful  battle-call. 

"  'Meantime  then  to  quit  this  city 

Let  all  secretly  prepare, 
And  make  all  your  chattels  ready 
Back  unto  Castile  to  bear. 

"  '  Saddle  next  my  Babieca, 

Arm  him  well  as  for  the  fight; 
On  his  back  then  bind  my  body, 
In  my  well-known  armor  dight. 

"  '  In  my  right  hand  tie  Tizona; 

Lead  me  forth  unto  the  war; 
Bear  my  standard  fast  behind  me, 
As  it  was  my  wont  of  yore. 

"  '  Then,  Don  Alvar,  range  thy  warriors 

To  do  battle  with  the  foe; 
For  right  sure  am  I  that  on  you 
God  will  victory  bestow.'  " 

And  what  the  Cid  foresaw  soon  arrived,  for  the  Moors 
soon  returned  to  besiege  Valencia;  but  the  Christians,  in 
accordance  with  the  Cid's  instructions,  had  prepared  for 
their  own  return  to  Castile,  and  in  the  dead  of  night  they 
led  forth  Babieca;  and,  by  the  glare  of  many  torches, 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  101 

they  bound  the  dead  body  of  the  Cid  firmly  upright  in 
the  saddle,  with  the  far-famed  Tizona  gleaming  naked 
in  his  stiff  right  hand. 

"  There  he  sat  all  stiff  and  upright, 

So  Gil  Diaz  did  contrive ; 
He  who  had  not  known  the  secret 
Would  have  deemed  him  still  alive. 

"  By  the  fitful  glare  of  torches 

Forth  they  go  at  dead  of  night; 
Headed  by  their  lifeless  captain, 
Forth  they  march  unto  the  fight." 

And  then,  by  a  miraculous  interposition,  good  Santiago 
came  to  their  aid;  and  the  Moors  saw  what  to  them 
appeared  to  be  an  innumerable  host,  led  on  by  a  super 
natural  leader  clothed  in  shining  raiment;  and,  say  the 
ballads,  — 

"Seventy  thousand  Christian  warriors, 

All  in  snowy  garments  dight, 
Led  by  one  of  giant  stature, 
Mounted  on  a  charger  white. 

"  On  his  breast  a  cross  of  crimson, 

In  his  hand  a  sword  of  fire, 
With  it  hewed  he  down  the  Paynims, 
As  they  fled,  with  slaughter  dire." 

And  so  they  all  turned  away  in  dismay  before  the  dead 
Cid  and  his  miraculous  allies;  and  thousands  of  them 
were  borne  down,  and  trampled  to  death  in  their  head 
long  flight,  while  vast  multitudes  were  drowned  in  their 
endeavors  to  get  aboard  their  own  ships. 


102  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY 

And  then  the  body  of  the  Cid  was  borne  back,  amid 
mournings  and  lamentings,  to  his  own  native  and  dearly 
beloved  Castile,  where  it  was  finally  to  repose,  with  the 
ashes  of  his  ancestors,  in  the  Convent  of  San  Pedro  de 
Cardena, — a  few  miles  to  the  east  of  Burgos,  and  not 
far  from  his  own  village  of  Bivar,  —  in  a  tomb  which 
was  honored  by  emperors  and  kings. 

His  faithful  Ximena  spent  the  remainder  of  her  days 
in  the  same  convent,  near  the  dead  body  of  her  lord, 
keeping  holy  vigils  by  his  tomb,  whom  she  had  so  faith 
fully  loved  in  life,  and  singing  masses  for  the  welfare  of 
his  soul ;  and  she  and  their  children  were  at  last  interred 
near  him  in  San  Pedro,  while  around  and  near  them 
sleep  the  ashes  of  their  ancestors,  surrounded  by  those 
of  kings,  nobles,  and  other  illustrious  men. 

Babieca,  the  noble  war-horse  that  had  borne  our  hero 
safely  on  his  back  through  all  his  bloody  battles,  — now 
as  celebrated  as  the  Bucephalus  of  Alexander  the  Great, 
—  was  kindly  cared  for  till  his  death;  and  no  one  was 
allowed  to  ever  mount  again  upon  that  back  which  had 
so  faithfully  and  nobly  borne  the  Cid  Rodrigo  Diaz, 
"  the  honor  of  Castile  and  Spain." 

"  And  neither  Spain  nor  Araby  could  another  charger  bring 
So  good  as  he,  or,  certes,  so  worthy  of  a  king; 
But  to  behold  him  truly,  and  know  him  to  the  core, 
You  should  have  seen  him  bear  the  Cid  when  charging  on 
the  Moor." 

He  was  buried  deep  beneath  the  trees  in  front  of  the 
convent  where  slept  the  ashes  of  his  master;  for  the  Cid 
had  given  directions  in  his  will,  that,  "when  ye  bury 
Bavieca,  dig  deep;  for  shameful  thing  it  were  that  he 


OF  DIFFERENT  NATIONS.  103 

should  be  eaten  by  curs,  who  hath  trampled  down  so 
much  currish  flesh  of  Moors."  And  above  the  entrance 
to  the  Convent  of  San  Pedro  is  a  mounted  figure  of  the 
Cid,  represented  as  in  the  act  of  striking  down  the 
Moors  beneath  the  feet  of  the  noble  Babieca. 

Thus  we  hope  to  have  shown,  by  the  few  hasty  quota 
tions  here  given  from  the  early  ballads  of  Spain,  and 
our  imperfect  historical  remarks  concerning  them  and 
the  events  which  tended  to  call  them  forth,  that  these 
old  songs,  with  their  sweet  undertone  of  sadness,  which 
forms  a  strong  element  of  their  success  and  beauty,  are 
worthy  of  a  place  in  the  heart  and  memory  of  all  true 
lovers  of  the  minstrel  art.  And  had  not  the  want  of 
space,  within  the  intended  limits  of  this  article,  forbid 
den  it,  it  would  have  been  right  pleasant  to  have  given 
here,  and  at  length,  many  another  of  those  old  ballads 
which  breathe  the  chivalric  spirit  of  that  age  when  the 
warlike  deeds  of  Spain's  great  hero  inspired  her  unpre 
tending  minstrel-bards  to  perpetuate,  for  all  time  to 
come,  the  memory  of  those  heroic  deeds  in  sweet  and 
spirit-stirring  songs. 

And  it  would  be  both  pleasant  and  profitable  to  ex 
amine  and  recount  some  of  those  sad  and  pathetic  ballads 
of  a  Moorish  origin,  which  more  particularly  relate  to 
that  period  and  its  events  when  the  united  forces  of 
Arragon  and  Castile,  under  the  successful  direction  of 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  were  finally  working  out  the 
total  ruin  and  downfall  of  the  Moorish  power  in  Spain; 
and  forcing  Boabdil,  the  last  weak  Moorish  King  of 
Granada,  to  cry  out  in  bitterness  of  soul,  — 

"  Farewell,  farewell  Granada!  thou  city  without  peer!" 


104  EARLY  BALLAD-POETRY. 

And  then  it  was  that  — 

"  There  was  crying  in  Granada  when  the  sun  was  going 
down,  — 

Some  calling  on  the  Trinity,  some  calling  on  Mahoun! 

Here  passed  away  the  Koran,  there  in  the  cross  was  borne, 

And  here  was  heard  the  Christian  bell,  and  there  the  Moor 
ish  horn. 

"  'Te  Deura  Laudamus!'  was  up  the  Alcala  sung: 

Down  from  the  Alhambra's  minarets  were  all  the  crescents 

flung; 

The  arms  thereon  of  Arragon  they  with  Castile's  display; 
One  king  comes  in  in  triumph,  one  weeping  goes  away!  " 

Some  of  the  ballads  of  this  period  are  the  beautiful 
effusions  which  flowed  from  the  richest  of  melancholy 
fancies,  wherein,  in  strains  of  deepest  pathos,  are  poured 
forth  the  very  essence  and  abstract  spirit  of  many  griefs; 
and,  running  through  them  all,  there  seems  to  be  a  con 
fluence  of  many  sad  thoughts,  which  were  all  awakened 
by  the  same  universal  sources  of  national  sorrow;  and 
all  going,  as  it  were,  to  make  up  one  national  reservoir 
of  pathetic  and  mournful  feelings,  embodied  in  strains 
of  deepest  pathos,  and  tinged  by  the  richest  Oriental 
fancy  to  mourn  the  loss  and  downfall  of  that  "  pride  of 
heathendom  "  and  "  bane  of  Christientie,"  the  last  and 
best  beloved  stronghold  of  the  Moors  in  Spain,  —  the  rich 
and  noble  kingdom  of  Granada. 


HISTORICAL    INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    POEM 
OF   KENILWORTH. 

THE  poem  of  Kenil worth  was  composed  during  a  visit 
made  by  the  author  to  the  ruins  of  Kenilworth  Castle  in 
England.  To  those  who  have  visited  the  ruins  of  Kenil 
worth,  and  read  Scott's  thrilling  story  of  the  same  name, 
no  word  of  explanation  is  necessary;  but,  to  the  many 
who  have  not  yet  enjoyed  those  exquisite  pleasures,  a 
word  of  historical  explanation  may  not  be  amiss.  The 
ruins  of  Kenilworth  Castle  are  situated  in  the  town  of 
Kenilworth,  county  of  Warwickshire,  England,  at  about 
a  hundred  miles  north-west  from  London.  They  are 
among  the  oldest  and  most  extensive  of  the  time-worn 
relics  of  the  feudal  ages.  They  date  back  with  certainty 
to  the  times  of  Henry  I.,  son  of  William  the  Conqueror, 
and,  perhaps-,  much  earlier.  Henry  I.  granted  the  manor 
to  his  chamberlain,  Geoffroi  de  Clinton,  one  of  those  Nor 
mans  who  settled  in  England  after  the  Conquest.  After 
the  last  of  the  de  Clintons  the  castle  was  again  vested 
in  the  Crown,  as  it  was  many  times  afterwards  in  the 
ages  that  followed;  and  for  many  ages  Kenilworth  was 
a  place  of  the  first  importance,  and  fills  an  important 
place  in  history.  Often  vested  in  the  Crown,  it  was 
likewise  often  possessed  by  some  of  the  greatest  of  Eng 
land's  nobles,  such  as  the  de  Montforts,  the  Bolingbrokes, 
and  the  renowned  John  of  Gaunt,  —  "  time-honored  Lan- 

105 


106  HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION  TO 

caster,"  —  who  had  here  his  favorite  residence.  Henry 
VIII.  bestowed  much  cost  in  repairing  and  enlarging  the 
castle.  And  Queen  Elizabeth  bestowed  the  castle  and 
manor  upon  Robert  Dudley  (son  of  the  Duke  of  North 
umberland),  whom  she  created  Earl  of  Leicester,  and 
whom,  it  has  been  said,  she  would  willingly  have  mar 
ried.  In  July,  1575,  took  place  the  "virgin  queen's" 
celebrated  visit  to  her  beloved  Leicester  in  his  castle  of 
Kenilworth,  when  and  where  were  held  those  world- 
renowned  fetes  and  tournaments  of  which  Scott  has  given 
us  such  an  enchanting  description.  And,  indeed,  to  the 
pilgrim  and  poet  the  ruins  of  Kenilworth,  grand  and 
beautiful  in  decay,  owe  their  chief  charms  to  the  spells 
of  enchantment  and  potent  attraction  that  have  been 
thrown  around  them  by  the  pen  of  the  Scottish  novelist ; 
and  a  thousand  pleasant  but  saddening  memories  will 
rise  up  in  the  pilgrim's  mind  while  wandering  among 
these  stately  and  extensive  ruins,  and  his  heart  will  often 
throb  with  sorrow  and  sympathy  for  the  woes  and  unre 
quited  love  of  poor  Amy  llobsart.  Although  Kenilworth 
is  now  in  ruins,  yet  is  it  grand  and  noble  even  in  decay, 
and  stands  to-day,  and  long  will  stand,  a  proud  witness 
of  the  pride  and  splendor  of  the  feudal  ages.  Occupying 
acres  of  ground,  it  is  composed  of  almost  innumerable 
lofty  towers  and  long  lines  of  connecting  buildings,  ex 
tending  around  and  nearly  inclosing  an  extensive  court, 
or  tilt-yard,  with  vast  piles  of  lofty  buildings  projecting 
at  irregular  intervals  of  its  circuit;  for  almost  every  one 
of  its  noble  possessors  made,  in  turn,  some  extensive  alter 
ations  or  additions.  The  Earl  of  Leicester  alone  is  said 
to  have  expended  in  his  time  about  sixty  thousand  pounds 
of  English  money  in  additions  and  repairs,  —  a  surn  equal 


THE  POEM  OF  KENILWORTH.  107 

in  value  to  more  than  a  million  of  dollars  of  our  present 
money.  The  great  banqueting  hall,  adjoining  Mervyn's 
tower,  was  built  by  John  of  Gaunt,  —  a  most  noble  apart 
ment,  nearly  a  hundred  feet  in  length,  and  half  as  wide, 
and  of  great  height.  Its  floor  was  supported  on  a  stone 
vaulting,  resting  on  parallel  rows  of  massive  pillars;  and 
its  windows  were  of  great  height,  filled  with  tracery,  and 
transomed,  with  the  spaces  between  them  paneled;  while 
they,  and  the  fireplaces  on  each  side,  were  richly  orna 
mented.  It  also  contained  two  grand  oriel  windows,  — 
one  looking  east  into  the  great  court,  and  one  looking 
west  into  the  chase.  But  Kenilworth  has  now  lain  for 
ages  dismantled  and  in  ruins,  and  reft  of  all  its  ancient 
glory ;  but  in  its  day  it  was  a  most  princely  abode.  Aside 
from  its  banqueting  halls  and  state  apartments,  it  con 
tained  rooms  for  more  than  a  hundred  beds,  to  accommo 
date  its  princely  possessors  and  their  retinues.  Kenil- 
worth's  final  ruin  was  completed  during  the  civil  wars 
that  followed  the  overthrow  of  Charles  I. ;  and,  from 
being  a  stately  and  princely  palace,  it  became  a  vast 
and  dismantled  ruin,  now  all  overgrown  with  aged  ivy- 
branches,  which  seek  to  shield  its  crumbling  walls  and 
towers  from  the  beating  storms  and  moaning  winds  which 
batter  and  wear  its  decaying  battlements,  and  moan 
through  its  deserted  and  ruined  halls.  After  the  restora 
tion,  the  ruined  castle  and  lands  of  Kenilworth  were 
granted  to  a  sou  of  Chancellor  Hyde;  and,  by  the  mar 
riage  of  one  of  his  female  descendants,  they  passed  to 
Thomas  Villiers,  Baron  Hyde,  afterwards  created  Earl 
of  Clarendon,  whose  descendants  are  the  present  possess 
ors.  A  few  years  ago  large  portions  of  the  ruins  showed 
signs  of  falling,  and  Earl  Clarendon  caused  them  to  be 


108  THE  POEM   OF  KENILWORTH. 

strengthened,  and  partially  restored  the  great  hall,  and 
repaired  some  of  the  external  walls,  as  well  as  some  parts 
called  Leicester's  buildings.  In  so  doing,  the  workmen 
discovered  underground  apartments,  cells,  and  passages 
which  had  lain  concealed  and  unknown  for  ages.  And 
thus  to-day  stands  ruined  Keuilworth,  —  grand  and  state 
ly,  even  in  decay,  with  some  of  its  slowly  crumbling 
towers  still  rising  to  a  height  of  more  than  seventy  feet, 
to  attest  the  grandeur  and  importance  of  princely  Kenil- 
worth  in  those  far-off  days  when  poor  Amy  Robsart, 
whose  glowing  beauty  would  well  have  graced  its  prince 
ly  halls,  was  wiping  her  tear-stained  eyes,  a  close  pris 
oner,  beneath  one  of  these  lofty  towers  whose  mistress  it 
was  her  right  to  be;  while  Leicester,  who  should  have 
protected  her  in  that  right,  was  basely  paying  court  to 
royalty  in  the  person  of  his  sovereign  queen. 

"  And  good  Queen  Bess  was  lodged  within  these  towers, 
Where  now  the  ivy  trails,  and  ruin  darkly  lowers." 


KENILWORTH. 


1  Full  many  a  traveler  oft  hath  sighed, 

And,  pensive,  wept  the  countess'  fall, 

As,  wandering  onwards,  they've  espied 

The  haunted  towers  of  Oumnor  Hall. 

'  Now  naught  was  heard  beneath  the  skies  : 

The  sounds  of  busy  life  were  still, 
Save  an  unhappy  lady's  sighs 
That  issued  from  that  lonely  pile." 

Gumnor  Hall,1  by  MICKLE. 


O  KENILWORTH  !  thy  crumbling  walls 
Speak  sadl}*  of  the  past  to  me  ; 

Now  standing  in  thy  ruined  halls, 
Thy  might}7  past  I  well  can  see. 


n . 

I  well  can  see  the  courtly  throng 
That  peopled  once  thy  lordly  walls  ; 

Gay  knights  and  dames,  who  trooped  along, 
And  woke  to  mirth  thy  princely  halls. 

1  See  Appendix  at  the  end  of  the  poem. 
109 


110  KENILWORTJI. 

III. 

Thy  lordly  towers  that  proudly  reared 
Their  lofty  heads  to  prop  the  sky : 

What  though  those  towers  have  disappeared  ? 
Though  walls  are  rent,  and  moat  is  dry? 

rv. 
What  though  to-day  no  banners  float 

Proudly  o'er  thy  embattled  walls  ? 
What  though  no  waters  fill  thy  moat, 

No  drawbridge  rises  now  or  falls  ? 

v. 

What  though  no  warder  on  thy  walls 

Paces  to-day  his  stately  round  ? 
What  though  no  echoing  bugle-calls 

Through  keep  and  court  and  tower  resound  ? 

VI. 

What  though  no  guards  or  seneschals, 
With  huriying  footsteps  to  and  fro,  — 

Roused  by  the  echoing  bugle-calls,  — 
Prepare  to  meet  if  friend  or  foe  ? 


What  though  th}"  glories  all  are  past  ? 

Thou  once  wert  might}',  world-renowned, 
Though  now  the  moaning  autumn  blast 

Seems  thy  sad  requiem  to  sound. 


KENILWORTH.  Ill 

VIII. 

And  rent  and  ruin  everywhere 

Fill  the  beholder's  mind  with  woe, 

Though  mantling  ivy's  shielding  care 
Less  ghastly  lets  thy  ruins  show. 

IX. 

Here  desolation  reigns  supreme, 

And  crumbling  ruins  strew  the  ground  ; 

Here,  where  such  earthly  pomp  was  seen, 
Ruin  and  silence  most  abound  ! 

x. 

N'importe!     By  aid  of  Fancy's  eye, 

I  gaze  adown  the  vanished  years, 
And  all  thy  pomp  and  panoply 

To  my  rapt  vision  now  appears. 

XI. 

As  by  some  great  enchanter's  power, 
The  vanished  years  are  backward  rolled, 

Till  keep  and  court  and  lordly  tower, 
Again  all  perfect,  I  behold  ! 

XII. 

Again  the  warders  mount  the  walls, 
And  princely  banners  flout  the  sky  ; 

And  England's  beauties  throng  thy  halls, 
Guarded  by  England's  chivalry. 


112  KEN IL  WORTH. 


I  see  the  virgin  queen  again 

Enthroned  in  th}*  high  princely  hall, 
A  "  virgin  queen,"  at  least  in  name, 

Beloved  by  some,  and  feared  by  all. 

XIV. 

And  graceful  Leicester,  bowing  low, 
Pays  homage  on  his  bended  knee, 

And  courts  his  sovereign  with  a  show 
Of  mingled  love  and  loyalty. 


While  England's  nobles,  standing  by, 
Look  smilingly  his  suit  upon, 

Deeming  he  mounts  to  royalty, 
His  sovereign's  heart  already  won. 


Little  that  sovereign  deems  that  here, 
Within  these  walls,  a  lovelier  one 

Is  pouring  now  the  silent  tear, 

To  whom  thy  plighted  faith  is  sworn.1 

1  During  Queen  Elizabeth's  celebrated  visit  to  Kenilworth,  and  while 
the  Earl  of  Leicester  was  entertaining  her  with  such  splendor,  and  also 
paying  her  such  marked  attention  that  he  was  generally  considered  as 
her  favored  and  accepted  lover,  the  beautiful  but  unhappy  Amy,  to 
whom  he  had  been  secretly  married,  was  confined  a  close  prisoner  in  a 
tower  of  the  castle  called  Mervyn's  Bower;  and  it  was  only  after  her 
escape  from  her  prison,  and  while  she  was  trying  to  fly,  — she  knew  not 


KENILWORTH.  113 

XVII. 

Wily  deceiver  !  dread  the  hour 

When  all  the  falsehoods  of  thy  heart 

Are  bared  to  her  offended  power, 
Lest  thy  poor  head  and  bod}*  part. 


XVIII. 

She  is  the  daughter  of  a  sire 

Who  ne'er  brooked  injury  or  slight ; 

Her  soul  is  filled  with  Henry's  fire : 

Oh,  dread  the  force  of  her  roused  might ! 


XIX. 

The  wounded  lion,  when  at  bay, 
Is  meek  compared  to  her  wild  rage 

When  jealousy  her  heart  shall  sway, 

And  vengeance  shall  her  thoughts  engage. 


whither,  —  that  she  was  accidentally  seen  by  the  queen.  And  only  those 
who  are  well  acquainted  with  the  character  of  Elizabeth,  and  have  read 
Scott's  thrilling  description  of  the  scene,  can  imagine  or  comprehend  the 
terrible  force  of  the  queen's  rage  as  she  gave  way  to  her  roused  jealousy 
and  wounded  pride;  and  the  explosion  of  her  anger  bowed  the  haughty 
Leicester  to  the  earth,  and  shook  him  like  an  aspen  leaf.  "  '  And  will 
he  be  the  better  for  thy  intercession?'  said  the  queen,  leaving  Tressil- 
ian,  and  rushing  to  Leicester,  who  continued  kneeling;  'the  better  for 
thy  intercession,  thou  doubly  false,  thou  doubly  foresworn? — of  thy 
intercession,  whose  villany  hath  made  me  ridiculous  to  my  subjects, 
and  odious  to  myself?  I  could  tear  out  mine  eyes  for  their  blindness ! '  " 


114  KENILWORTn. 

XX. 

But  not  for  Leicester,  nor  for  queen, 
Do  wear}'  pilgrims,  year  b}*  year, 

Seek  out  this  sad  and  solemn  scene 
To  muse  in  mournful  silence  here. 


Ah,  no  !  nor  that  these  ruined  walls 
Once  owned  de  Montfort  as  their  lord, 

Or  echoed  to  wild  battle-calls 
Beneath  Plantagenet's  own  sword. 


Oh,  no  !  nor  that  great  John  of  Gaunt  — 
"  Time-honored  Lancaster  "  —dwelt  here.1 

Not  for  such  names  do  pilgrims  haunt 

These  scenes,  and  o'er  them  drop  the  tear. 

1  Henry,  Earl  of  Derby  and  Duke  of  Lancaster,  died  in  peaceful  pos 
session  of  Kenilworth  in  the  thirty-fifth  of  Edward  III.,  leaving  two 
daughters  as  his  joint  heiresses,  —  Maud,  aged  twenty-two,  and  Blanch, 
nineteen.  Maud  afterwards  married  William,  Duke  of  Bavaria;  and 
Blanch  brought  Kenilworth  as  her  portion  of  the  inheritance,  in  mar 
riage,  to  one  of  its  most  illustrious  possessors,  —  John  of  Gaunt,  son  of 
Edward  III. ;  and  the  king  soon  after  created  him  Duke  of  Lancaster, — 
the  "time-honored  Lancaster"  of  Shakspeare.  Kenilworth  Castle  be 
came  to  him  a  favorite  place  of  abode,  and  he  added  largely  to  it;  and 
some  portions  of  the  ruins  still  bear  his  name,  and  show  the  magnificence 
of  his  tastes. 


KENILWORTH.  115 


A  deeper  charm  than  all  combined 

Is  woven  round  these  crumbling  stones,  — 

The  spells  of  a  great  master  mind 

Mingled  with  injured  Beauty's  moans. 

XXIV. 

When  the  pale  moon  in  virgin  blaze 
Silvers  each  crumbling  tower  and  wall, 

And  pours  a  flood  of  silvery  rays 
Through  the  old  grand  baronial  hall ; 

XXV. 

Then  moving  shadows  come  and  go 
Through  ivy-branches  rent  and  torn, 

Which,  to  the  roused-up  fancy,  show 
Like  flitting  maiden's  half-seen  form. 

XXVI. 

And  sighing  night  winds,  moaning  round 
Through  broken  arch  and  crumbling  tower, 

Startle  the  ear,  like  distant  sound 
Of  maiden's  moans  in  prison-bower. 

xxvu. 
And  softened  echoes  from  the  dell, 

Like  wavelets  on  the  silver  sands, 
Fall  on  the  ear  like  distant  knell 

Of  death-bell  rung  by  spirit-hands  ! 


116  KENILWORTH. 


Then  will  the  pilgrim's  throbbing  heart 
The  soul's  deep  sympathy  disclose, 

And  in  the  poet's  eye  will  start 
A  tear  for  Amv  Robsart's  woes. 


XXIX. 


And  poet's  head  and  poet's  soul 

Will  bow  in  reverence  deep  and  long 

To  him  who  could  all  hearts  control,  — 
To  Scotland's  bard,  her  king  of  song  ! 


To  Scotland's  bard,  whose  might}'  mind 
Wove  magic  spells  these  ruins  round, 

Where  woman's  love  and  woes  combined 
Make  this  forever  holy  ground  ! 


APPENDIX  TO  THE  POEM  OF  "KENIL WORTH." 

ALTHOUGH  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his  grand  romance  of 
"  Kenilworth,"  has  represented  some  of  the  most  deeply 
interesting  scenes  in  that  touching  story  as  passing  in 
Kenilworth  Castle,  yet  the  entire  tragedy  of  the  murder 
of  the  real  Countess  of  Leicester  took  place  at  Cumnor 
Hall,  near  Oxford,  many  miles  distant  from  Kenilworth 
Castle.  And  it  was  the  beautiful  old  ballad  of  "  Cumnor 
Hall,"  on  the  tragic  death  of  the  real  Countess  of  Leicester, 
by  William  Julius  Mickle,  a  Scottish  poet  of  the  eigh 
teenth  century,  that  first  suggested  to  Sir  Walter  the  idea 
of  his  noble  story.  The  true  history  of  the  tragic  death 
of  the  real  Countess  of  Leicester  is  to  be  found  in 
Ashmole's  "Antiquities  of  Berkshire;"  and  the  entire 
tragedy  took  place  in  Cumnor  Hall. 

Three  or  four  miles  from  Oxford  —  the  seat  of  the 
great  English  university  —  are  the  ruins  of  Godstow 
Abbey;  but  very  little  is  now  left  of  Godstow,  and  only  a 
few  standing  walls  were  to  be  seen  when  the  writer  of 
this  took  pains  to  visit  the  place  a  few  years  ago ;  and 
those  sacred  remains  were  then  used  as  a  cow-pen :  — 

"  To  what  base  uses  we  may  return,  Horatio!" 

But  in  the  neighborhood  of  ruined  Godstow  were  the 
broad  lands  of  the  ancient  manor  of  Cumnor  Hall,  once 
belonging  to  the  monks  of  Abington. 

117 


118  APPENDIX   TO 

At  the  suppression  of  the  monasteries  by  Henry  VIII. 
in  the  sixteenth  century,  the  said  manor  of  Cumnor  was 

conveyed  to  one Owen,  the  possessor  of  Godstow  at 

the  time;  and,  according  to  Ashrnole's  "  Antiquities," 
there  was  in  the  said  house  of  Cumnor  Hall  a  chamber 
called  Dudley's  chamber,  where  the  Earl  of  Leicester's 
wife  was  murdered,  of  which  murder,  according  to  Ash- 
mole,  the  following  is,  in  part,  the  true  story:  — 

"  Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester,  a  very  goodly  per 
sonage,  and  singularly  well  featured,  being  a  great  favor 
ite  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  it  was  thought,  and  commonly 
reported,  that  had  he  been  a  batchelor  or  widower  the 
queen  would  have  made  him  her  husband;  to  this  end,  to 
free  himself  of  all  obstacles,  he  commands,  or  perhaps 
with  fair  flattering  intreaties,  desires  his  wife,  the  Coun 
tess  of  Leicester,  to  repose  herself  here  at  his  servant 
Anthony  Forster's  house,  who  then  lived  in  the  aforesaid 
manor-house  (i.e.,  in  Cumnor  Hall),  and  also  prescribed 
to  Sir  Richard  Varney  (a  prompter  to  this  design),  at  his 
coming  hither,  that  he  should  first  attempt  to  poison  her, 
and,  if  that  did  not  take  effect,  then  by  any  other  way 
whatsoever  to  dispatch  her. 

"  This,  it  seems,  was  proved  by  the  report  of  Dr. 
Walter  Bayly,  sometime  fellow  of  New  College,  then 
living  in  Oxford,  and  professor  of  physic  in  that  uni 
versity,  whom,  because  he  would  not  consent  to  take 
away  her  life  by  poison,  the  earl  endeavored  to  displace 
him  the  court.  This  man,  it  seems,  reported  for  most 
certain,  that  there  was  a  practice  in  Cumnor  among  the 
conspirators  to  have  poisoned  this  poor  innocent  lady  a 
little  before  she  was  killed,  which  was  attempted  after 
this  manner :  — 


THE  POEM   OF  "  KEN IL  WORTH."  119 

"They,  seeing  the  good  lady  sad  and  heavy  (as  one 
that  well  knew  by  her  other  handling,  that  her  death  was 
not  far  off),  began  to  persuade  her  that  her  present  dis 
ease  was  abundance  of  melancholy  and  other  humours, 
&c.,  and  therefore  would  needs  counsel  her  to  take  some  po 
tion,  which  she  absolutely  refusing  to  do,  as  still  suspect 
ing  the  worst,  whereupon  they  sent  a  messenger  on  a  day 
(unawares  to  her)  for  Dr.  Bayly,  and  entreated  him  to 
persuade  her  to  take  some  little  potion  by  his  direction, 
and  they  would  fetch  the  same  at  Oxford,  meaning  to 
have  added  something  of  their  own  for  her  comfort,  as 
the  doctor  upon  just  cause  and  consideration  did  suspect, 
seeing  their  great  importunity,  and  the  small  need  the 
lady  had  of  physic,  and  therefore  he  peremptorily  denied 
their  request,  misdoubting  (as  he  afterwards  reported), 
lest,  if  they  had  poisoned  her  under  the  name  of  his 
potion,  he  might  have  been  hanged  for  a  colour  of  their 
sin;  and  the  doctor  remained  still  well  assured  that  this 
way  taking  no  effect,  she  wrould  not  long  escape  their 
violence,  which  afterwards  happened  thus:  — 

"  For  Sir  Richard  Varney  above-said  (the  chief  pro 
jector  in  this  design),  who,  by  the  earl's  order,  remained 
that  day  of  her  death  alone  with  her,  with  one  man  only 
and  Forster,  who  had  that  day  forcibly  sent  away  all  her 
servants  from  her  to  Abington  market,  about  three  miles 
distant  from  this  place.  They  (I  say,  whether  first  stifling 
her,  or  else  strangling  her)  afterwards  flung  her  down  a 
pair  of  stairs  and  broke  her  neck,  using  much  violence 
upon  her  ;  but,  however,  though  it  was  vulgarly  reported 
that  she  by  chance  fell  down  stairs  (but  still  without  hurt 
ing  her  hood  that  was  upon  her  head),  yet  the  inhabitants 
will  tell  you  there  that  she  was  conveyed  from  her  usual 


120  THE  POEM  OF   " KENILWORTH." 

chamber  where  she  lay,  to  another  where  the  bed's  head 
of  the  chamber  stood  close  to  a  privy  postern  door,  where 
they  in  the  night  came  and  stifled  her  in  her  bed,  bruised 
her  head  very  much,  broke  her  neck,  and  at  length  flung 
her  down  stairs;  thereby  believing  the  world  would  have 
thought  it  a  mischance,  and  so  have  blinded  their  vil 
lainy." 

Such  (in  part)  is  the  true  story  of  the  murder  of  the 
real  Countess  of  Leicester;  and  Scott,  in  the  preface  to 
his  grand  romance  of  "Kenilworth,"  tells  us  that  he 
"  borrowed  several  incidents,  as  well  as  names,  from 
Ashmole's  '  Antiquities; '  but  that  his  first  acquaintance 
with  the  history  [of  the  murder  of  the  real  Countess  of 
Leicester]  was  through  the  pleasing  medium  of  verse," 
alluding,  thereby,  to  the  fine  old  ballad  of  "Cumnor 
Hall,"  by  Mickle,  two  stanzas  of  which  I  have  placed  at 
the  head  of  my  poem  of  "  Kenilworth  "  as  a  motto. 

G.  D. 

1882. 


THE  WIZARD'S   GRAVE. 


'Each  varying  shade  of  many  colored  life  he  drew, 
Exhausted  worlds,  and  then  created  new." 


I  STOOD  by  Avon's  winding  stream  ; 

And  tearful  eyes  were  gazing  on 
A  tomb  where  sleep,  in  endless  dream, 

The  ashes  of  proud  "  Stratford's  Swan.  "  * 
And  mortal  heads  were  bending  low 

In  reverence  round  that  humble  tomb, 
Where,  flitting  ever  to  and  fro, 

Strange  throngs  of  shadowy  forms  find  room. 


ii. 

With  Fancy's  eye  I  see  them  all,  — 
A  wondrous,  shadowy  spirit-throng  ! 

With  aslry  lips  some  seem  to  call, 
And  some  seem  chanting  aiiy  song  ; 

1  In  an  unpretending  church  in  the  rural  town  of  Stratford,  and  near 
the  sweetly  gliding  River  Avon,  sleeps,  beneath  a  plain  and  humhle  slab, 
all  that  was  mortal  of  the  great  and  immortal  Shakspeare,  "  the  sweet 
Swan  of  Avon,"  but  infinitely  greater  in  his  humble  grave  than  all  the 
kings  who  lie  in  gorgeous  tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

121 


122  THE    WIZARD'S    GRAVE. 

Mouthing  and  moping  here  and  there, 
Some  glide,  all  ghostlike,  to  and  fro ; 

While  some  seem  spirits  of  the  air 
Watching  the  ways  of  those  below. 


Many  with  coronets  are  crowned, 

Some  robed  like  haughty  kings  and  queens  ; 
And  one,  with  gaze  bent  on  the  ground, 

In  weeds  of  woe,  a  mourner  seems : 
In  "  inky  cloak,"  l  his  ashen  face 

E'er  thrills  me  with  its  solemn  stare, 
While  ever  by  him  seems  to  pace 

A  kingly,  ghostlike  form  of  air. 

IV. 

Which  seeing,  he,  with  wonder  thrilled 

And  outstretched  hands,  on  bended  knee, 
In  supplicating  mood,  seems  filled 

With  doubt  and  dread  uncertainty  : 
Thus  gazing  on  that  kingly  form, 

He  seems  to  list  some  dreadful  tale  ; 
For,  like  the  rack  of  driving  storm, 

Dark  shades  flit  o'er  his  features  pale. 

1  "  Hamlet.    'Tis  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother, 
Nor  customary  suits  of  solemn  black, 
No,  nor  the  fruitful  river  in  the  eye, 
Together  with  all  forms,  modes,  shows  of  grief, 
That  can  denote  me  truly:  these,  indeed,  seem, 
For  they  are  actions  that  a  man  might  play  : 
But  I  have  that  within  which  passeth  show; 
These  but  the  trappings  and  the  suits  of  woe." 

Hamlet,  Act  i.  Scene  2. 


THE    WIZARD'S   GRAVE.  123 


It  thrills  the  soul  to  see  the  throngs 

Of  airy  forms  that  there  find  room ; 
While  Fancy's  ear  hears  airy  songs 

Sighed  out  above  that  wizard's  tomb, 
And  Fancy's  eye  beholds  with  fear 

Such  sights  as  would  appall  the  brave,  — 
The  murderer's  knife,  the  victim's  tear, 

"Woman's  remorse,  and  maiden's  grave. 

VI. 

And  one  dark  form,  appalled  with  fears 

From  meditation  deep,  profound, 
With  sudden  "  flaws  and  starts,"  appears 

To  chase  an  "  air-drawn  dagger  "  l  round  ! 
And  near  him  a  right  queenly  form 

Her  pallid  hands  appears  to  lave  ; 
And  of  "  damned  spots,"  of  murder  born, 

In  walking  sleep,  she  seems  to  rave.2 

1  "  Lady  Macbeth.    This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fear  : 
This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger,  which,  you  said, 
Led  you  to  Duncan.     Oh,  these  flaws  and  starts 
(Impostors  to  true  fear)  would  well  become 
A  woman's  story  at  a  winter's  fire, 

Authorized  by  her  grandam."          Macbeth,  Act  iii.  Scene  4. 
2  "Waiting-woman.    Lo  you,  here  she  comes!    This  is  her  very  guise ; 
and,  upon  my  life,  fast  asleep.    Observe  her. 

Doctor.     What  is  it  she  does  now?    Look  how  she  rubs  her  hands. 
Waiting -woman.    It  is  an  accustomed  action  with  her  to  seem  thus 
washing  her  hands  :  I  have  known  her  continue  in  this  a  quarter  of  an 
hour. 

Lady  Macbeth  (walking  in  her  sleep  and  rubbing  her  hands}.  Yet 
here's  a  spot.  Out,  damned  spot !  out,  I  say  !  —  One,  two  :  why,  then 
'tis  time  to  do't."  Macbeth,  Act  v.  Scene  1. 


124  THE    WIZARD'S    GRAVE. 


While  weird  and  withered  forms  around 

In  magic  circles  seem  to  turn, 
Where,  rising  ghostlike  from  the  ground, 

Blue,  lurid  flames  round  caldron  burn  : l 
As  if  by  magic,  mingle  all 

These  beings  of  a  wizard's  brain  ; 
While  airy  voices  seem  to  call, 

They  pass,  and  turn,  and  come  again. 

VIII. 

Why  turn  they  here  in  endless  round  ? 

Why  hover  ever  o'er  this  tomb, 
Obeying,  as  by  magic  bound, 

His  ashes  in  their  final  home  ? 
Great  wizard  of  the  world,  sleep  on  ! 

The  world,  in  reverence,  bows  to  thee  ; 
Millions  of  ages  yet  to  come 

To  thy  great  name  shall  bend  the  knee  ! 

IX. 

Reader,  go  stand  beside  that  grave  ! 

The  sights  I  saw  shall  meet  your  view  : 
If  not,  then  pray  }'our  soul  to  save  : 

That  wizard's  charms  are  not  for  you  ; 

1  "  Witches,     Round  about  the  caldron  go; 
In  the  poisoned  entrails  throw.  — 
Double,  double  toil  and  trouble ; 
Fire,  burn;  and,  caldron,  bubble." 

Macbeth,  Act  iv.  Scene  1. 


THE    WIZARD'S   GRAVE.  125 

For  there  for  ever  must  that  throng 
Of  shadowy  beings  wheel  their  round, 

And  airy  voices  breathe  wild  song, 

Where  the  great  wizard's  grave  is  found. 


TO  EDWIN  BOOTH  AS  HAMLET. 


The  following  tribute  to  Edwin  Booth,  in  his  great  and  unrivalled 
character  of  Hamlet,  was  composed  in  honor  of  his  appearance  in  that 
character  at  the  Park  Theatre,  in  Boston,  in  March,  1880,  after  an  absence 
of  some  years.  It  was  published  in  "  The  Boston  Daily  Evening  Travel 
ler,"  and  from  that  paper  copied  into  others,  while  Mr.  Booth,  as  Ham 
let,  was  nightly  crowding  the  theatre  to  its  utmost  capacity  with  the 
most  fashionable  and  delighted  audiences. 


HAIL  !  hail !  all  hail !  thy  glad  return  ! 
For  now  the  classic  lamp  shall  burn 
Once  more  to  light  our  modern  stage, 
Undimmed  by  follies  of  the  age ; 
And  we  with  joy  shall  hear  again 
Great  Shakspeare's  deep  impassioned  strain, 
Interpreted  with  grace  refined 
By  thine  own  loft}',  classic  mind. 


Too  long  our  stage  hath  cumbered  been 
By  follies  of  a  lighter  mien, 
Where  show  and  jest  of  simple  mood 
Are  served  for  intellectual  food  : 
Shame  on  the  age  that  thus  demands 
Such  nourishment  from  actors'  hands  ! 

126 


TO  EDWIN  BOOTH  AS  HAMLET.  127 

Full  well  we  know  the  stage  hath  been 

In  ever}'  age  the  mimic  scene 

Where  the  true  temper  of  the  age 

Repeats  itself  upon  the  stage. 

In  the  great  days  of  Greece  and  Rome, 

The  noblest  actions  there  were  shown  ; 

Yet,  long  before  their  overthrow, 

Their  stage,  like  ours,  held  empty  show  : 

Effeminacy  wrought  decay 

Of  strength  that  held  the  world  at  bay. 

Not  all  the  powers  of  foreign  foe 

Could  lay  their  power  and  grandeur  low, 

Till  love  of  wealth  and  show  at  length 

Had  sapped  their  stern  and  manly  strength. 

And  can  we  hope  to  'scape  the  doom 
That  gave  to  Greece  and  Rome  a  tomb? 
And  doth  not  now  our  modern  stage, 
Like  theirs,  the  same  dark  fate  presage? 
The  stage,  with  truth,  as  Shakspeare  told, 
Doth  ' '  mirror  up  to  nature  hold  ; ' ' 
And  there  ' '  the  body  of  the  times  ' ' 
"  In  form  and  pressure"  truly  shines. 

We  hail  thee  with  a  joyous  heart, 
And  long  to  see  thee  play  thy  part : 
Let  Stratford's  Swan  exalt  his  crest, 
And  soar  in  grandeur  o'er  the  rest ! 


128  TO  EDWIN  BOOTH  AS  HAMLET. 

Put  modern  follies  all  to  rout : 

Oblivion's  wave  shall  wash  them  out ; 

But  ne'er  for  wealth  or  present  fame, 

Mingle  with  them  thy  noble  name, 

That  name  which  long,  within  the  mind, 

Hath  been  with  Shakspeare's  intertwined, 

Till  unto  us,  as  to  our  sires, 

It  lights  the  glow  of  classic  fires. 

Descend  thou,  not  from  Shakspeare's  line, 

To  follies  of  the  present  time, 

But  hold  untiringly  th}-  course, 

Like  tried  and  trusted  battle-horse. 

Heed  en\y  not !  be  of  good  cheer, 

Nor  falter  in  thy  high  career  ! 

For  ne'er  did  towering  genius  soar, 

But  raised  the  envy  of  the  boor  ; 

And  proof  most  sure  of  lofty  state, 

When  marked  by  env}'  and  by  hate. 

But  heed  it  not,  and  coming  time 

Thy  name  with  laurel  wreath  shall  twine. 

Thousands  and  thousands  eveiywhere 
Now  watch  thee  in  thy  great  career : 
Oh,  fail  us  not !  our  faith  in  thee 
Is  firm  as  human  faith  can  be,  — 
Firm  as  the  adamantine  rock 
That  meets  unmoved  the  ocean's  shock, 
Where  northern  tempests  roar  and  rave  ; 
Where  bursts  the  northern  ocean's  wave : 


TO  EDWIN  BOOTH  AS  HAMLET.  129 

Yet  strength  and  grandeur,  there  combined, 
Meet  and  hurl  back  both  wave  and  wind : 
So  let  thine  own  proud  soul  stand  firm,       , 
And  hate  and  envy  meet  with  scorn  ; 
For  godlike  is  the  thirst  of  fame, 
And  the  desire  for  deathless  name  : 
And  ages  yet  unborn  shall  hear 
The  story  of  thy  proud  career. 

As  old  men's  memories  yet  are  stirred 
By  thy  sire's  name  as  Richard  Third, 
So  shall  thine  own,  in  coming  time, 
With  that  of  Hamlet  ever  shine  ! 
And  name  of  Hamlet,  shall,  in  sooth, 
Bring  to  the  mind  the  name  of  Booth ! 
And  millions  }'et  unborn  shall  say 
How  Booth  did  Hamlet's  woes  portray ; 
How  thus,  and  thus,  he  played  the  part ; 
How  fired  the  soul,  how  thrilled  the  heart. 

Is  there  no  art  by  which  are  caught 
The  airy  lines  of  changing  thought  ? 
No  heaven-born  art,  to  catch  and  trace 
The  doubt  and  wonder  in  thy  face? 
When  there,  upon  thy  bended  knee, 
A  father's  ghost  thou  first  dost  see? 

And  when,  in  sweet  Ophelia's  heart, 
JSo  longer  sure  of  lover's  part, 


130  TO  EDWIN  BOOTS  .45  HAMLET. 

What  tender  sorrow  —  grief  refined  — 
lu  thy  distracted,  doubting  mind  ! 
And  poor  Ophelia,  doubting  too 
What  rightfully  to  think  or  do, 
Bewails  thy  reason  overthrown,  — 
"  Like  sweet  bells  jangled  out  of  tune  !  " 
Her  heart,  her  hopes,  now  tempest-tossed, 
She  fades  and  dies,  —  her  reason  lost ! 
Yet,  like  the  swan,  she  singing  dies, 
Twining  sweet  flowers  with  memories  ; 
Her  fading  sighs,  her  dying  moans, 
As  tender  as  the  wind-harp's  tones. 

And  when  thy  mother  thou  dost  chide, 
While  j'et  she  seeks  her  guilt  to  hide,  — 
Oh  God  !  is  there  no  art  can  trace 
The  agony  upon  tin'  face? 
Can  trace  and  give,  to  coming  time, 
To  see  that  agony  sublime  ? 

And  when  at  last  a  father's  death 

Is  well  avenged,  and  thy  last  breath 

Is  drawn  in  agony  and  pain, 

Lest  coming  time  thy  action  blame,  — 

Oh,  then  !  the  living  thoughts  that  trace   , 

Their  lines  upon  thy  dying  face  ! 

Of  all  the  cunning  hands  that  weave 
The  lines  to  make  cold  marble  breathe,  — 


TO   EDWIN  BOOTH  AS  HAMLET.  131 

Of  all  those  hands,  oh !  are  there  none 
Can  chisel  out  a  dj-ing  groan  ? 
Press  on  !  press  on  !     Oh,  never  fear, 
Nor  falter  in  thy  grand  career  ! 
Though  art  may  fail,  a  deathless  name 
Awaits  thee  with  the  crown  of  fame  ! 


TRIBUTE   TO   OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES. 


ON   HIS    SEVENTIETH    BIRTHDAY. 

When  the  poet  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  reached  the  age  of  seventy 
years,  the  publishers  of  "  The  Atlantic  Monthly"  —  to  which.  Dr.  Holmes 
had  long  been  a  constant  contributor  —  gave  a  reception  and  breakfast  to 
the  veteran  poet  in  honor  of  the  occasion,  and  many  poems  were  writ 
ten  in  celebration  of  the  event;  and,  among  others,  the  following  was 
•written  in  honor  of  that  occasion,  and  afterwards  published  in  "  The 
Daily  Evening  Traveller." 

"  How  shall  an  old  man  keep  young? 
Seek  the  spell  all  tribes  among 
In  the  lore  of  every  tongue; 
Seek  it  in  the  catacombs 
Buried  in  Egyptian  tombs; 
Lastly  search  in  Florida 
For  the  fount  which  Leon  saw." 

J.  F.  C.  to  O.  W.  II. 

WHY  seek  dark  spells  strange  tribes  among, 

Or  mystic  lore  in  foreign  tongue  ? 

Why  search  through  the  dark  catacombs, 

Or  in  old  Egypt's  mould}1  tombs? 

Why  seek  for  magic's  mystery 

To  guard  against  what  ne'er  can  be? 

What  need  of  charm  or  spell,  in  sooth, 

Or  of  the  fabled  Fount  of  Youth? 

132 


TRIBUTE   TO   OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES.      133 

For  be  it  said  with  accent  bold, 
Holmes  never  was  nor  can  be  old  ; 
His  own  sweet  songs,  of  love  and  truth, 
Are  his  unfailing  Fount  of  Youth. 

Whoever  heard  it  said  or  sung 
That  Homer,  Virgil,  were  not  young? 
Whoever  heard  it  sung  or  told 
That  Burns  or  Byron  e'er  grew  old? 
And  know  you  not  that  lofty  mind 
Was  ne'er  by  nature's  laws  confined? 
Mind  pierces  laws  of  nature  through  : 
No  need  that  I  tell  this  to  you. 

Holmes  bears  in  his  own  loving  heart 

The  magic  and  the  mystic  art, 

The  glamour  and  the  charm  untold, 

By  which  he  never  can  seem  old  ; 

He  pours  from  his  own  dulcet  tongue 

The  magic  words  that  keep  him  young  ; 

And  heart  and  brain  the  charm  combine 

Which  make  him  your  friend —  and  mine. 

Yes,  mine  he  is,  although,  'tis  true, 

We  ne'er  had  earthly  interview  : 

The  Fates  to  me  that  joy  ne'er  gave  — 

Perchance  ne'er  will  —  this  side  the  grave  ; 

And  to  me  it  may  ne'er  be  given 

To  clasp  his  hand  this  side  of  heaven. 


134      TRIBUTE   TO   OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES. 

N'importe!     I  revel  in  his  song, 
And  my  heart  bears  his  love  along  ; 
Like  you,  I  prize  his  mirth  and  wit, 
And  oft  they  give  me  laughing  "  fit." 
1  con  them  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
Till  every  button  feels  the  strain  ; 
And  in  my  heart  I  bless  the  man 
Who  "  ne'er  writes  funny  as  he  can." 

His  songs  cheer  me  on  life's  rough  road  : 
The}'  ease  my  heart  of  weary  load, 
And  bring  to  me  the  same  sweet  spell, 
As  if,  like  you,  I  knew  him  well ; 
My  soul  warms  with  poetic  fire, 
Like  j'ours,  whene'er  he  tunes  his  lyre  ; 
And,  when  he  strikes  a  sadder  strain, 
We  both  resist  its  power  in  vain  ; 
For,  be  his  strain  or  sad  or  free, 
He  charms  each  heart  to  sympathy. 

His  sweet  songs  bear  no  marks  of  age  ; 
Freshness  and  youth  embalm  each  page  ; 
In  every  flowing  line  we  see 
The  fairest  flowers  of  minstrelsy, 
Untouched  by  any  breath  of  cold  : 
Then  how  can  he  be  growing  old  ? 

Awaj*  with  such  unwelcome  word, 
And  let  it  never  more  be  heard  ! 


TRIBUTE   TO    OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES.      135 

But  hail  him  now,  and  hail  him  long, 
Our  dear  New  England's  prince  of  song  ! 
Oh,  may  his  lyre  ne'er  lose  a  string, 
Nor  chilling  age  ai'ound  it  cling 
To  muffle  its  sweet  voice  of  song ! 
Which  heaven  grant  ma}'  cheer  us  long, 
May  cheer  us  through  life's  pilgrimage, 
And  millions  more  from  age  to  age  ! 

Then  let  us  love  him  while  we  may, 
And  prize  him  more  from  day  to  da}' : 
His  heart  for  all  bears  love  untold, 
And  never,  never  can  grow  old. 

But,  oh  !  should  envious  Death  appear, 
And  bear  him  to  some  higher  sphere,  — 
We  would  not  sa}'  that  he  was  dead, 
But  to  the  starry  heavens  fled, 
Where  golden  lyres  for  ever  sound, 
Where  songs  of  love  and  truth  resound  ; 
There  his  great  soul  and  tuneful  lyre 
Shall  bear  their  part  in  heavenly  choir ; 
Then  may  our  souls  be  borne  afar 
To  meet  him  on  that  better  star. 


OLIVER  AND  JAMES. 

(First  published  in  "  The  Daily  Evening  Traveller.") 

The  seventieth  birthday  of  the  Rev.  James  Freeman  Clarke  was  hon 
ored  by  a  public  celebration  of  the  event  in  the  Church  of  the  Disciples ; 
and  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes — in  honor  of  whose  seventieth  birthday 
Dr.  Clarke  had  written  a  poem  a  few  months  before  —  wrote,  in  turn,  a 
very  touching  poem  to  his  college  classmate  and  life-long  friend,  in  which 
occurs  this  stanza:  — 

"How  few  still  breathe  this  mortal  air 

We  called  by  schoolboy  names ! 
You  still,  whatever  robe  you  wear, 
To  me  are  only  James!  " 

AGAIN  we  hear  the  solemn  chime, 

Pealed  b}*  the  iron  tongue  of  Time  ; 

The  solemn  chime  —  "  His  seventieth  }*ear  "  — 

Again  breaks  on  the  startled  ear, 

As  if  the  world  had  all  grown  old, 

And  Youth  was  dead,  and  Hope  was  cold, 

And  gray-haired  Time,  without  a  fear, 

Could  sound  for  all  a  seventieth  3'ear, 

As  if  the  race  of  living  men 

Had  donned  at  once  "  threescore  and  ten." 

It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday 
That  James  awoke  his  tender  lay, 

136 


OLIVER  AND  JAMES.  137 

Where  Friendship  sang,  in  sweetest  strains, 
For  Oliver,  the  love  of  James. 

It  filled  the  eye  with  Pitj-'s  tears 

When  Oliver  saw  seventy  years  ; 

And  James,  to  celebrate  the  da}', 

Awoke  for  him  that  tender  lay 

Where  friendship  tried,  with  artful  strain, 

To  soothe  for  Oliver  the  pain,  — 

The  pain  —  regret  —  perchance  the  tears, 

That  wrapped  him  with  those  seventy  years. 

Now  James,  in  turn,  has  reached  the  age 

Allotted  to  life's  pilgrimage,  — 

The  numbered  years,  "  threescore  and  ten," 

The  Psalmist  counts  for  mortal  men  ; 

And  Oliver,  in  tender  strains, 

Sings  back,  in  turn,  to  comfort  James, 

And  strives  with  all  a  minstrel's  art 

To  cheer  dear  James  and  soothe  his  heart ; 

And  wreathes  his  brow  and  wipes  his  tears, 

Till  he  forgets  his  seventy  years. 

And  thus,  like  brothers  tried  and  true, 
They  nobly  march  life's  journey  through  ; 
And  hand  in  hand  the  bard  and  sage 
Are  winding  down  life's  pilgrimage  ; 
And  as  they  go,  to  cheer  the  road 
And  ease  the  heart  of  weary  load, 


138  OLIVER  AND   JAMES. 

With  tender  songs  and  noble  speech, 
Each  one,  in  turn,  doth  comfort  each  : 
With  many  a  look  to  that  dear  time 
When  both,  in  j-outh,  began  to  climb,  — 
To  climb  the  shining  heights  of  Fame, 
Where  both  have  won  a  noble  name,  — 
The  heights  of  Fame,  where  now  they  stand 
The  noblest  in  their  native  land. 
Oh,  may  their  days  be  lengthened  long, 
To  cheer  with  counsel  and  with  song  ! 

And  shall  nnT  harp  be  silent  now, 

When  seventy  years  wreathe  James's  brow? 

My  harp  that  woke  its  feeble  lays 

To  sound  for  Oliver  meet  praise,  — 

Meet  praise  for  him  when  seventy  years 

Had  wrapped  him  in  their  weight}'  cares  ? 

If  to  that  harp  one  chord  remains, 
Now  let  it  sound,  in  turn,  for  James  ! 
By  noble  sage  and  noble  bard 
Now  let  its  dying  notes  be  shared  ! 
And  when  for  them  its  dying  strain 
Shall  cease,  it  ne'er  may  sound  again. 

Well,  let  it  break  :  no  eye  shall  weep, 
Though  harp  and  harper  both  shall  sleep  ; 
And  though  no  breaking  chord  shall  raise 
A  note  to  sound  our  dying  praise,  — 


OLIVER  AND  JAMES.  139 

No  matter  though  we  die  unsung, 
My  poor  harp  broken,  — all  unstrung,  — 
Enough  for  us,  that  in  our  day 
We  woke  for  them  our  humble  lay  ! 
Enough  for  us,  that  here  they  deign 
To  listen  to  our  humble  strain  ! 

Who'd  sing  for  me  when  seventy  years 
Should  load  me  with  their  heavy  cares? 
Nor  Oliver  nor  James  would  then 
Walk  this  fair  earth  with  living  men  : 
The  sage  and  bard,  then  hand  in  hand, 
Will  walk,  in  love,  "  that  better  land." 
"  That  better  land  !  "     Oh,  can  it  be 
That  I  both  bard  and  sage  shall  see,  — 
Shall  see  and  press  the  spirit-hand 
Of  both  when  in  "  that  better  land  "  ? 
O  happy  thought !  and  if  I  may, 
Then  quickly  come  that  welcome  day ! 
And  may  we  all —  a  loving  band  — 
Meet  ne'er  to  part  in  "  better  land  "  ! 


THE  GREEX,  THE  GOLD  CORN,  AXD  THE 
SHEAVES. 


"  BETWEEN  the  green  corn  and  the  gold,"  * 

Between  life's  morning  and  its  noon, 
How  man}'  ardent  loves  grow  cold ! 

How  man}7  bright  hopes  cease  to  bloom ! 
How  manj*  fatal  changes  come, 

How  many  fatal  truths  are  told, 
Between  life's  morning  and  its  noon,  — 

"  Between  the  green  corn  and  the  gold  "  ! 

ii. 

The  things  which  pleased  us  when  a  child 

Ere  noon  of  life  neglected  lie  ; 
Faces  that  in  life's  morning  smiled 

Ere  noon  of  life  grow  pale  and  die  : 
Ere  noon  of  life  life's  joys  are  past ; 

Ere  noon  of  life  the  heart  grows  old  ; 
Life's  hopes  and  flowers  all  wither  fast 

"  Between  the  green  corn  and  the  gold." 

1  The  first  line  of  this  poem  is  quoted  from  a  very  pretty  little  song 
which  I  have  met  with  somewhere,  but  I  am  unable  to  say  where,  or  to 
give  its  author's  name  now. 
140 


THE  GREEN,  THE  GOLD  CORN.      141 

III. 
Who  has  not  seen  the  morning  sun 

In  blazing  splendor  climb  the  sky? 
And  yet,  ere  half  his  coarse  was  run, 

His  darkened  beams  elude  the  eye. 
Who  has  not  seen  the  opening  flower 

In  morning  splendor  blooming  fair  ? 
And  yet,  before  the  noontide  hour, 

Its  leaves  were  torn,  —  its  stem  was  bare. 

IV. 

Quick-coming  clouds  obscure  the  sun, 

Rude  hands  will  tear  the  opening  flower, 
And  human  life,  in  joy  begun, 

Is  darkened  ere  life's  noontide  hour ; 
The  brightest  life  will  sink  in  gloom, 

The  highest  hopes  grow  dead  and  cold, 
Between  life's  morning  and  its  noon,  — 

"  Between  the  green  corn  and  the  gold." 

v. 

Between  the  gold  corn  and  the  sheaves, — 

The  gathered  sheaves  of  ripened  grain,  — 
To  the  sad  heart,  life  never  leaves 

Enough  of  joy  to  gild  its  pain  ; 
Between  the  noontides  and  the  eves,  — 

The  solemn  eves  of  closing  life,  — 
Between  the  gold  corn  and  the  sheaves, 

Sorrow  and  pain  alone  are  rife. 


142      TEE  GREEN,  THE  GOLD  CORN. 

VI. 

Then  friends  of  early  life  are  dead, 

Or  —  worse  than  dead  —  estranged  and  cold 
And  life's  last  lingering  hope  has  fled, 

And  all  of  life's  sad  tale  is  told. 
Then  the  lone  heart  in  silence  grieves, 

And,  breaking,  sinks  in  death  and  pain  ; 
Then  the  gold  corn  is  bound  in  sheaves,  — 

In  gathered  sheaves  of  withered  grain. 


THE   FADED   FLOWER. 

(First published  in  "  The  Daily  Evening  Traveller.") 

"What!  not  receive  ray  foolish  flower? 

Nay,  then,  I  am  indeed  unblest  : 
On  me  can  thus  thy  forehead  lower? 
And  knowest  thou  not  who  loves  thee  best?  " 


THE  rose,  dear  maid,  thou  gavest  to  me 

Has  faded  leaf  by  leaf, 
Although  I  watched  it  tenderly, 

And  saw  it  fade,  —  with  grief; 
I  warmed  it  with  full  many  a  sigh, 

And  watered  it  with  tears  ; 
And  yet  that  little  flower  would  die 

In  spite  of  all  my  cares. 

ii. 

Its  tiny  stem  so  slenderly 

The  needed  life  supplied, 
That  though  I  nursed  it  tenderly, 

And  loved  it,  yet  it  died  ; 

143 


144  THE  FADED  FLOWER. 

And  as  I  watched  its  fading  leaves, 

All  falling  one  by  one, 
I  could  but  feel  how  Hope  deceives 

The  while  she  leads  us  on. 


'Tis  thus,  I  said,  our  early  hopes 

Are  fading  day  by  day  ; 
And  Time's  swift  current  never  stops, 

But  sweeps  those  hopes  away. 
Life's  rosy  morn,  so  sweet  and  fair, 

With  skies  so  bright  and  gay, 
Is  soon  o'ercast  with  doubt  and  care,  — 

Our  sky  all  cold  and  gray. 

IV. 

And  earl}'  loves  will  fade  and  die, 

Howe'er  the  sad  heart  grieves, 
And  withered  hopes  around  us  lie, 

Like  these  poor  withered  leaves  ; 
The  heart's  rich  treasures  soon  are  gone, 

All  squandered  one  by  one, 
And  leave  the  heart  as  cold  and  lone 

As  winter's  rayless  sun. 

v. 

Oh,  will  our  love  thus  fade  away 
Or  stronger  grow  with  time  ? 


THE  FADED   FLOWER.  145 

For  thee,  mine  strengthens  day  by  day  : 

How  is  it,  love,  with  thine  ? 
Let  thy  love  give  the  life,  dear  maid, 

Mine  give  the  sighs  and  tears  ; 
And  then  our  rose  shall  never  fade 

Through  all  the  coming  3Tears,  — 

VI. 

But  stronger  grow,  and  sweeter  too, 

As  time  shall  glide  away  ; 
And,  as  we  pass  life's  journey  through, 

Its  leaves  shall  ne'er  decay  ; 
And  never  shall  its  fading  bloom 

Be  mourned  by  us  at  all : 
Where  we  shall  sleep,  within  the  tomb, 

Its  fragrant  leaves  may  fall. 


THESE   BUDS   AND   FLOWERS. 

ON  RECEIVING  A  PRESENT  OF  ROSEBUDS  AND   FLOWERS 
ON  "  NEW-YEAR'S  DAY." 

THESE  buds  and  flowers,  from  hands  most  dear, 
Come  to  me  with  the  new-born  year : 
They  come  in  winter's  darksome  gloom 
To  cheer  my  heart  with  sweet  perfume  ; 
They  come  upon  this  "  New- Year's  Day  " 
A  fair  one's  tender  wish  to  say, 
And  to  my  heart  a  tale  the}-  tell 
That  words  could  never  paint  so  well. 

These  buds  and  flowers  are  dear  to  me, 
But  dearer  would  the  giver  be  ; 
These  buds  and  flowers  now  claim  my  care  : 
The  giver  owns  my  constant  prayer. 
Since  the  fair  giver  comes  not  now, 
To  buds  and  flowers  I  breathe  my  vow  ; 
And,  while  they  fade  in  slow  decay, 
For  the  fair  giver's  weal  I  pray. 

Oh,  never  may  this  new-born  year 
To  her  bright  eyes  bring  burning  tear  ; 
146 


THESE  BUDS  AND   FLOWERS.  147 

And  may  no  pains  her  pulses  stir, 
Like  those  I  often  feel  for  her  ; 
And  may  her  heart  ne'er  know  a  gloom 
Like  this  which  now  pervades  my  room, 
While  here  I  sit  and  make  my  moan 
And  sigh,  —  because  I'm  all  alone  ! 

These  flowers  are  fair,  but  now  to  me 

Far  fairer  would  the  giver  be  ; 

These  soothe  the  brain,  whence  hot  tears  start ; 

But  she  could  soothe  the  aching  heart. 

Of  all  the  flowers  I  e'er  shall  see, 

She  is  the  fairest  flower  to  me  : 

Then  come,  fair  maid,  and  soothe  my  woe, — 


LITTLE   MAIDEN   SWEET   AND   FAIR. 

TO   LITTLE   MISS    H ,    FIFTEEN   YEARS   OLD. 

"  Young  Peri  of  the  West!  'tis  well  for  me 
My  years  already  doubly  number  thine; 
My  loveless  eye  unmoved  may  gaze  on  thee, 
And  safely  view  thy  ripening  beauties  shine, 
Happy  I  ne'er  shall  see  them  in  decline." 

LITTLE  maiden  sweet  and  fair, 
Girlish  face  and  flowing  hair  ; 
Rosebud  in  the  early  morn, 
With  the  breath  of  summer  born  ; 
Violet  wet  with  morning  dew, 
Tinted  all  with  heavenly  hue,  — 
Ere  thy  morning  pass  away, 
Let  me  love  thee  while  I  may. 

By  thy  airy  form  and  grace, 
By  thy  spirit-lighted  face, 
By  thy  clear  e}-e's  heavenly  hue, 
Showing  heart  and  soul  so  true, 
Where  no  touch  of  guile  is  seen, 
Naught  but  modest  maiden's  mien,  — 
Ere  thy  pure  looks  pass  aw  a}-, 
Let  me  love  thee  while  I  may. 
148 


LITTLE  MAIDEN  SWEET  AND  FAIR.         149 

Thy  fair  hair,  all  unconfined, 
Floating  on  the  summer  wind, 
Waves  around  thy  tiny  form 
In  the  breath  of  early  morn  ; 
And  thy  light  step,  fair  and  free, 
Shows  both  grace  and  modesty  : 
Ere  these  girlish  charms  decay, 
Let  me  love  thee  while  I  may. 

Tlry  dark  tresses  soon  would  be 
Chains  to  bind  my  soul  to  thee  ; 
Fairy  form  and  girlish  face 
Soon  will  bloom  with  woman's  grace  ; 
Thy  dark  eyes  and  glowing  cheek 
Soon  will  love's  wild  language  speak  : 
For  that  hour  I  dare  not  stay  ; 
Let  me  love  thee  while  I  may. 

May  thy  beauty  never  be 
Source  of  after  ill  to  thee  ! 
May  God's  love  protect  thee  here, 
Fitting  thee  for  higher  sphere  ! 
Such  the  prayer  I  pray  for  thee  : 
Some  time  give  one  tear  to  me  : 
I  till  death  for  thee  will  pray, 
And  will  love  thee  while  I  may. 

May  thy  pure  soul  ever  be 
From  all  sin  and  guile  kept  free  ! 


150        LITTLE  MAIDEN  SWEET  AND   FAIR. 

May  thy  heart's  true  love  be  given 

Where  well  prized,  or  else  to  Heaven  ! 

May  I  never  live  to  see 

Sin  or  sorrow  blighting  thee, 

Or  thy  beauties  in  deca}' ! 

Let  me  love  thee,  —  and  away. 


TIME'S   LESSON. 


TIME  to  me  one  truth  has  taught  — 
One  sad  truth  —  long  past  believing  ; 

I  have  found  that  hearts  I  thought 
Truest,  best,  were  most  deceiving. 


I  have  found  that  one  most  loved, 
Dearly  loved  and  deeply  trusted, 

False  and  wayward  early  proved 
To  a  love  that  should  have  lasted. 

in. 

Now  this  heart,  once  deeply  thrilled 
With  the  keenest  sense  of  pleasure, 

Evermore  with  grief  is  filled,  — 

Grief  no  words  of  song  can  measure. 


Had  she  never  kindly  smiled, 
Had  I  never  loved  and  trusted, 

Had  she  ne'er  this  heart  beguiled, 

Heart  and  hopes  had  ne'er  been  blasted. 

151 


152  TIME'S  LESSON. 


V. 


May  that  heart  so  dearly  loved, 
Dearly  loved  and  deeplj-  trusted, 

To  some  sweet  remorse  be  moved 
By  some  memory  which  lasted  ! 


VI. 


May  the  pangs  ruthlessly  given,  — 
Ruthless  pangs  all  mutely  taken,  — 

In  eternity  and  heaven 

Pangs  of  deep  repentance  waken  ! 


THERE   WAS   A   TIME. 


THERE  was  a  time  those  e}*es  of  thine, 

With  dear  affection's  tender  glow, 
Beamed  sweetly  in  response  to  mine  ; 

But  now,  alas  !  it  is  not  so  : 
Thy  looks  are  cold,  thy  ways  are  changed ; 

For  kindly  words  I  wait  in  vain  ; 
Thy  heart  is  cold,  and  all  estranged, 

And  seems  to  glory  in  my  pain. 


ii. 

From  thy  unfeeling  bosom  rise 

Two  swelling  heaps  of  dazzling  snow, 
And  there,  before  my  wondering  eyes, 

Two  blushing  buds  in  beaut}'  grow : 
How  can  thy  cold,  unfeeling  breast 

Nourish  those  rosebuds  sweet  and  fair? 
How  can  the}'  warm  and  sweetly  rest 

When  my  poor  heart  is  frozen  there  ? 

153 


154  THERE    WAS  A   TIME. 

III. 
Oh,  take  thy  kisses  back  again,  — 

Kisses  thy  sweet  lips  freely  gave ! 
Their  memory  loads  my  heart  with  pain, 

And  buries  hope  within  the  grave  ; 
And  hide  those  dazzling  hills  of  snow, 

Which,  lost,  would  ever  fairer  seem  : 
Oh,  must  I  those  dear  charms  forego, 

Or  is  this  all  a  fevered  dream  ? 

IV. 

Oh,  no,  dear  maid,  it  is  not  true  ! 
'Twas  but  a  moody  dream  of  mine  : 

Thy  swelling  bosom  meets  my  view 
As  warm  as  summer's  glowing  prime  ; 

And  those  two  rosebuds,  blushing  there, 
Are  fairer  than  the  buds  of  spring  : 

This  world  holds  naught  more  sweet  or  fail- 
Inspiring  poet's  heart  to  sing. 

v. 
So  come,  dear  maid,  and  be  my  love  ; 

None  other  e'er  shall  be  my  bride  : 
If  thy  dear  heart  shall  constant  prove, 

I  care  not  for  the  world  beside  ; 
And  years  ma}'  roll,  and  youth  may  fade, 

And  I  will  live  and  die  with  thee : 
So  let  thine  eyes,  my  bonnie  maid, 

Ne'er  turn  one  chilling  glance  on  me. 


THE   SUN  OF   HOPE. 


THE  sun  of  Hope,  for  one  brief  hour, 

Burst  through  the  clouds  of  grief  and  woe 
That  wrapped  my  soul  with  darksome  power, 

And  warmed  me  with  its  fitful  glow ; 
'Twas  when  thou  bad'st  me  hope  and  love, 

And  falsely  swore  to  love  in  turn, 
As  if  an  angel  from  above 

Had  taught  my  soul  with  love  to  burn. 


ir. 

But  when  I  found  thee  false  —  as  fair, 

And  woke  from  the  delusive  dream, 
Then  Hope  was  quenched  in  dark  despair, 

And  Desolation  reigned  supreme  ; 
And  Hope's  bright  sun  in  endless  night 

Sank  down,  oh,  ne'er  to  rise  again  ! 
And  dark  Despair,  with  magic  might, 

Wound  round  my  soul  his  clanklcss  chain. 

155 


156  TEE  SUN   OF  HOPE. 

III. 
And  I  must  wear  that  chain  for  aye, 

And  feel  it  festering  round  the  heart, 
And  hide  from  every  human  eye 

Its  sickening  pain,  its  deadly  smart ; 
And  wear  within  the  heart  a  grief, 

A  grief  untold  through  3-ears  of  woe, 
And  feel  that  time  brings  no  relief, 

And  let  no  tear,  in  sorrow,  flow. 

IV. 

Such  the  dark  fate  thou  dcal'st  to  me  ; 

And  yet  I  bless  thy  hand  the  while, 
And  far  from  hope,  and  far  from  thee, 

In  desolation  seem  to  smile. 
I  viewed  thee  not  with  wanton  eye : 

Mine  was  a  more  than  human  love  ; 
Then,  oh  !  in  mercy,  tell  me  why 

Thou  could st  so  false  and  wayward  prove. 

v. 

But  let  it  pass  !     Dark  years  shall  roll 

Alike  upon  thy  heart  and  mine  : 
The  desolation  of  my  soul 

May  yet  extend  itself  to  thine. 
And  yet  I  pray  that  God  will  spare, 

In  mercy  spare,  thee  every  pain  : 
Let  me,  all  uncomplaining,  bear 

The  bitter  woe,  the  grief,  the  blame. 


THE  SUN  OF  HOPE.  157 

VI. 

Let  life's  dark  course  all  quickly  roll : 

Oh  !  would  it  were  already  o'er, 
My  heart  at  rest,  and  my  freed  soul 

Where  grief  and  pain  can  come  no  more  ! 
There  will  I  wait  and  watch  for  thee  ; 

And,  if  thy  soul  repentant  prove, 
Beyond  life's  dark  and  doubtful  sea 

We  yet  may  dwell  in  blissful  love. 


METEMPSYCHOSIS.1 

TO    MISS    . 

I. 

OH,  will  those  bright  e}-es  ever  weep 

One  crystal  tear  when  I  am  low, 
Or  those  fair  lids  e'er  wake  from  sleep 

To  let  one  tear  in  silence  flow, 
Because  I  ne'er  may  come  again, 

Because  my  heart  in  death  is  low? 
Oh  God !  'twould  soothe  this  heart's  deep  pain 

If  I  might  truly  deem  it  so. 


ii. 

Will  ttry  fair  bosom  throb  with  pain 

When  I  am  cold  and  lowly  laid, 
Because  I  may  not  come  again 

To  cheer  and  love  thee,  pretty  maid? 

1  The  doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of  the  soul  (metempsychosis) 
probably  had  its  origin  in  Egypt.  It  was  connected  with  the  idea  of  the 
reward  and  punishment  of  human  actions,  and  was  taught  by  1'ythago- 
ras  and  his  followers.  They  held,  that,  after  death,  the  souls  of  men  pass 
into  other  animal  bodies;  and  this  doctrine  is  still  prevalent  in  many 
parts  of  Asia. 

158 


ME  TEMPS  YCHOSIS.  159 

Oh  God  !   'twould  soothe  my  aching  heart 
To  deem  that  thou  dost  love  me  so ; 

'Twould  steal  from  Death  his  keenest  dart, 
And  soothe  of  life  each  bitter  woe. 


in. 

And  yet  I  would  not  have  thee  weep, 

Nor  have  thy  bosom  throb  with  pain  ; 
Though  cold  in  death,  I  could  not  sleep 

My  soul  would  fly  to  earth  again  ; 
And  I  should  linger  round  thee  here, 

Forsaking  heavenly  joys  on  high  ; 
My  soul  would  drink  thy  every  tear, 

And  melt  in  every  tender  sigh. 


IV. 


If  that  old-time  philosophy 

Bj-  ancients  taught  should  prove  the  true, 
Then,  by  metempsychosis,  I 

Ma}-  change  my  form,  not  quit  thy  view ! 
Then,  in  that  feathery  songster's  breast 

That  caged  hangs  within  thy  room, 
I'll  nightly  sing  thee  to  thy  rest, 

And  nestle  near  thee  in  thy  home,  — 


160  METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

V. 

And  daily  feel  thy  hand's  caress, 

And  thrill  at  thy  endearing  word, 
As  dail}*  thou  my  cage  shalt  dress, 

Deeming  thou  talkest  to  thy  bird  ; 
And,  when  thine  eyes  in  death  shall  close, 

I'll  fold  my  wings,  and,  closing  mine, 
My  spirit  freed  shall  seek  repose, 

And  mingle  evermore  with  thine. 


THAT  SULTRY  FOURTH  OF  JULY. 


i. 


DOST  thou  remember,  dear,  the  time  — 

That  sultry  fourth  of  July  — 
When  fruits  and  flowers  were  in  their  prime, 

And  I  loved  thee  so  truly  ? 
The  golden  hours,  on  pinions  bright, 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  Zara  : 
The  memory  of  that  deep  delight 

No  time  or  change  can  vary. 


n. 

I  culled  thee  fruits,  I  brought  sweet  flowers 

And  twined  them  with  thy  tresses, 
And  heeded  not  the  fleeting  hours, 

But  heeded  thy  caresses. 
Ah,  woe  is  me  !  why  did  those  hours 

Fly  with  such  ruthless  fleetness  ? 
Oh,  could  ye  not,  ye  heavenly  powers, 

Prolong  them  and  their  sweetness  ? 

161 


1G2  THAT  SULTRY  FOURTH  OF  JULY. 


I  never,  never  shall  forget 

How  all  the  lengthening  shadows 
Closed  round  us  when  the  sun  had  set, 

Concealing  hills  and  meadows  ; 
And  how  I  held  thee  to  my  heart 

That  long,  sweet  hour  of  parting  : 
Oh,  pleasures  past  bring  present  smart, 

And  these  sad  tears  now  starting  ! 

IV. 

When  will  another  day,  sweet  maid, 

Beam  with  such  hours  of  gladness? 
Why  do  past  joys  now  cast  a  shade 

So  much  akin  to  sadness? 
Why  does  fond  memoiy  always  bring 

Thoughts  of  that  day's  deep  pleasure? 
Why  to  it  does  the  fond  heart  cling 

As  to  some  long-lost  treasure  ? 

v. 

Well,  time  may  fly,  and  j-ears  may  roll, 

And  joys  and  pains  may  vary  ; 
But  never,  never  shall  my  soul 

Forget  the  charms  of  Zara  ! 
And,  till  life's  latest  sun  is  set, 

I  e'er  shall  love  thee  truly ; 
And,  oh  !  I  never  will  forget 

That  sultry  fourth  of  July  ! 


HEAVEN'S  ARTILLERY,  OR  WAR  AND  PEACE. 


How  the  hot,  burning  sun 

Fiercely  doth  blaze, 
While,  in  his  course  half-run, 

Darting  his  rays ! 
Hung  high  in  the  zenith 

O'er  forest  and  field, 
To  mortals  he  seemeth 

Like  God's  mighty  shield. 


H. 

Like  God's  mighty  shield  there, 

Inviting  to  war, 
While  the  hot,  sultry  air 

Blazes  afar ; 
And  all  the  wilting  trees, 

Bowing  the  head, 
Sigh  for  the  cooling  breeze, 

Stifled  and  dead. 

163 


164  HEAVEN'S  ARTILLERY, 

in. 

Now  the  black  thunder-clouds 

Rise  from  afar, 
And,  like  to  armed  crowds 

Read}'  for  war, 
Close  up  their  serried  ranks, 

Heavy  and  dark ; 
Rise  from  those  thunder-banks 

Mutteriugs  stark. 


On  they  move  steadily, 

Slowly  at  first ; 
More  and  more  readily,  — 

Soon  they  shall  burst ! 
Deep-rolling  thunder  and 

Banners  unrolled 
Waken  the  wonder  and 

Fear  of  the  world  ! 

v. 

Wheeling  now  rapidly, 

Fearless  and  stark  ; 
Now  mingling  vapidly, 

Heav}r  and  dark : 
Then,  in  a  moment,  they 

Close  o'er  the  sun, 
Quenching  his  burning  ray  : 

Battle's  begun ! 


OR    WAR  AND  PEACE.  165 

VI. 

Now  the  red  lightning-flash, 

Fearlessly  hurled, 
Wakes  the  loud  thunder-crash, 

Shaking  the  world  ! 
Rapidly  darting  now 

Flash  upon  flash  ! 
Loud  thunders  starting,  —  how 

Dreadful  the  crash ! 

VII. 

Never  could  mortals, 

In  death  or  in  life, 
Wake  from  War's  portals 

Such  horrible  strife  : 
All  the  dark  fiends  of  hell, 

Mingling  in  war, 
Charging  with  shout  and  yell, 

Wake  not  such  jar. 

VIII. 

How  the  black  masses  wheel, 

Mingle,  and  roar ! 
How  the  loud-crashing  peal 

Sounds  the  world  o'er  ! 
Elements  God  unbinds 

Leap  into  life, 
And  the  wild,  roaring  winds 

Join  in  the  strife. 


166  HEAVEN'S  ARTILLERY. 

IX. 

Red  lightnings  flashing 

The  universe  o'er ; 
Loud  thunders  crashing 

With  deafening  roar ; 
The  big  rain  is  pouring 

A  deluge  to  earth  ; 
Heaven's  elements,  roaring, 

Give  Chaos  new  birth. 

x. 

How  long  can  the  heavens  and 

Earth  thus  endure? 
Will  not  God's  mighty  hand 

Make  us  secure  ? 
Yes,  lo  where  the  bow  of 

His  promise  unfurled 
Brings  hope,  and  a  show  of 

His  love  for  the  world  ! 

XI. 

Elements  warring,  now 

Cease  at  His  will ; 
Dark  clouds  retiring,  now 

Thunders  are  still ; 
Shines  forth  His  sun  again 

With  softened  ray : 
Ever,  in  joy  or  pain, 

Unto  Him  pray ! 


MEMORIES   OF   CHILDHOOD. 

LINES  WRITTEN  ON  REVISITING  THE  HOME  OF  MY 
CHILDHOOD  IN  WILLIAMSTOWN,  VT.,  AFTER  YEARS 
OF  ABSENCE. 

"  And  other  days  come  back  on  me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is  changed  and  solemn,  like  the  cloudy  groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind." 

Childe  Ilarold. 

I. 

ONCE  more  1  revisit  the  land  of  my  birth, 

And   seek    the    loved    cottage    and   home-hallowed 

hearth, 

Where,  a  frolicsome  band  from  anxiety  free, 
We  gathered  in  youth  round  a  dear  mother's  knee. 


n. 

Where  now  is  that  brotherly-sisterly  band  ? 
Estranged,  and  all  scattered  afar  through  the  land  ; 
And  where  is  that  mother,  so  loved  and  so  dear? 
Oh,  stay,  while  I  water  her  grave  with  a  tear ! 

167 


168  MEMORIES   OF  CHILDHOOD. 

III. 

Oh,  never  did  God,  in  his  mercy  and  truth, 
Give  a  better  or  dearer  to  childhood  and  youth  ! 
I  breathe  o'er  her  grave  many  prayer-laden  sighs, 
"While  the  hot,  burning  tears  pour  like  rain  from  the 
eyes. 

IV. 

Oh  God !  if  I  only  could  see  her  again 

With  these  eyes  that  are  reddened  with  weeping  and 

pain, 

And  tell  her  how  terribly  dark  was  our  home, 
And  how  saddened  was  life  when  she  left  us  alone  ! 


v. 

I  have  placed  o'er  her  grave  the  white  marble  to  tell 
Her  dear  name,  and  the  reason  we  loved  her  so  well ; 
And  have  left  by  her  side  ample  room,  where,  in 

time, 
My  ashes  shall  mingle,  dear  mother,  with  thine  ! 


VI. 

And,  oh  !  if  thy  spirit  hath  power  to  come, 
When  my  spirit  is  freed  from  this  temporal  home, 
Then  come,  dearest  mother,  and  guide  me  afar 
To  thy  own  spirit-home  on  some  beautiful  star ! 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD.  169 

VII. 

Our  cottage  has  crumbled  and  gone  to  decay, 

And  dark  weeds  and  brambles  have  choked  up  the 

way; 

But  the  darkest  of  weeds  are  the  weeds  of  the  heart, 
And  the  brambles  of  thought  pierce  the  soul  like  a 

dart. 

VIII. 

The  threshold  is  broken,  the  hearthstone  is  bare, 

Where,  at  evening  and  bedtime,  we  all  said  our 
prayer, 

As  each  one,  in  turn,  kissed  dear  mother  "good 
night," 

And  clambered  to  bed  with  hearts  happy  and  light. 

IX. 

Where  are  the  familiar  old  faces  and  forms 
That  loved  us  in  sunshine,  and  cheered  us  in  storms? 
I  search  the  old  places,  and  call  them  in  vain  ; 
For  only  sad  Echo  replies  to  each  name. 

x. 

And  e'en  the   old   schoolhouse   seems   altered   and 

changed, 

Like  faces  once  loved  that  have  long  been  estranged  ; 
The  brook  still  goes  by  it  with  musical  flow,  — 
But  a  music  how  changed  from  the  dear  long  ago  ! 


170  MEMORIES   OF  CHILDHOOD. 


XI. 


And  where  are  the  voices  that  greeted  the  ear, 
When,  belated  at  morn,  I  came  hurrying  here? 
And  where  is  the  teacher,  so  faithful  and  true, 
Who  even  our  errors  with  kindness  could  view  ? 


XII. 


Those  voices  are  hushed,  and  the  teacher  is  gone  ; 
Here  I  wander,  in  sadness  and  silence,  alone, 
And  sigh  for  the  friends  of  the  dear  long  ago, 
And  mingle  my  tears  with  the  brook  in  its  flow. 


XIII. 

My  dear  native  land,  I  must  bid  thee  adieu, 
And  all  the  loved  spots  which  in  boyhood  I  knew  ! 
My  heart  with  unbearable  sorrow  is  moved 
When  I  mark  the  sad  changes   in   homes  which  I 
loved. 

XIV. 

Th}"  hills  and  thy  valletys,  so  dear  to  my  heart, 
'Tis  painful  to  view  them,  and  painful  to  part ; 
How  I  loved,  in  my  youth,  all  the  glories  of  shade 
That   thy  wide-waving  woodlands   in  summer  once 
made ! 


MEMORIES   OF   CHILDHOOD.  171 

XV. 

Thy  mountains  are  green,  as  thy  name  doth  imply,1 
And  in  picturesque  beauty  with  any  may  vie  ; 
And  with  my  loved  country  what  land  can  compare 
When  the  perfumes  of  autumn  embalm  thy  sweet 
air,  — 

XVI. 

When  thy  woodlands  are  tinted  brown,  purple,  and 

red, 

And  thy  mantle  of  autumn  is  everywhere  spread, 
Where  the  scarlet  and  yellow  are  mingled  with  green 
In  colors  as  gorgeous  as  ever  were  seen  ? 

XVII. 

O  land  of  sweet  lakes  and  of  wild  mountain-rills, 
Of  wide-waving  woodlands  and  purple-crowned  hills  ! 
Thy  maidens  are  fair,  and  thy  yeomen  are  brave, 
And  thy  soil  could  ne'er  nourish  the  soul  of  a  slave.2 

xvin. 

Thy  mothers  are  noble  ;  thy  warriors  were  brave 
As  the  bravest  that  struggled  their  country  to  save  ; 
And  may  God,  in  his  mercy,  from  danger  and  harm 
For  ever  protect  them  with  his  mighty  arm  ! 

1  Vermont  derives  its  name  from  two  French  words,  vert  mont;  I.e., 
"  green  mountain." 

2  There  was  never  a  slave  owned  in  the  State  of  Vermont.     The  first 
constitution  of  the  State  prohibited  slavery. 


172  MEMORIES   OF   CHILDHOOD. 

XIX. 

And  all  thy  dear  maidens,  so  lovely  and  fair, 

With  white,  swelling  bosoms  and  long,  waving  hair, 

May  some  worthier  bard   to   their  praise  give   his 

breath 
When    my   harp   and   my   harpings   are   silent    in 

death, — 

xx. 

And  I  join  the  great  throng  of  the  harpers  of  old, 
Where  the  mightiest  bards  their  high  harpings  shall 

hold, 

And  I  sit  at  their  feet,  all  enraptured,  to  hear 
Their  golden-toned  lyres  in  heaven's  bright  sphere  ! 


THE  HEART  THAT  IN  SILENCE  IS  BREAKING. 

"  The  day  drags  through,  though  storms  keep  out  the  sun; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on !  " 


THE  heart  that  in  silence  is  breaking 

Is  most  to  be  pitied  of  all ; 
When,  alone  in  its  desolate  aching, 

It  drinks  of  the  wormwood  and  gall. 
Surrounded  by  beings  called  human, 

Yet  never,  among  them,  from  one  — 
Not  even  from  pitying  woman  — 

Doth  mercy  or  sympathy  come. 

n. 

As  seen  on  some  desolate  mountain, 

One  lonely  and  lightning-scathed  pine 
That  is  fed  by  no  nourishing  fountain, 

There  biding  in  silence  its  time, 
So  the  heart,  that  in  silence  is  breaking, 

Unnourished  by  pit}-  or  love, 
In  desolate  loneliness  aching, 

Hopes  only  for  rest  from  above. 

173 


174    THE  HEART  THAT  IN  SILENCE  IS  BREAKING. 

III. 

There  are  moments  when  memory,  waking, 

The  scenes  of  the  past  will  recall ; 
When  the  heart,  in  its  loneliness  breaking, 

Craves  mercy  and  pity  from  all ; 
When  the  desolate  soul  is  surrounded 

By  darkness  unbroken  and  drear, 
Or  the  sad  heart  most  deeply  is  wounded 

By  one  of  all  others  most  dear. 

IV. 

Then,  oh  !  if  the  beings  called  human 

Would  mere}'  and  sympathy  lend, 
Or  the  God-given  angel  called  woman 

Would  o'er  us  in  truthfulness  bend, 
It  would  be  to  the  soul  like  nepenthe 

By  pit}'ing  angels  shed  round, 
As  if  God  in  His  mercy  had  sent  me 

A  balm  for  the  soul's  every  wound. 

v. 

Oh  God  !  do  I  err  in  believing 

That  somewhere  on  earth  may  be  found 
One  being,  who,  never  deceiving, 

Shall  solace  and  soothe  every  wound  ? 
In  whom  the  dark  soul,  in  confiding 

Its  sorrows,  shall  sympathy  find? 
Where  mercy  and  truth,  all-abiding, 

Shall  solace  one  tempest-tossed  mind  ? 


THE  HEART  THAT  IN  SILENCE  IS  BREAKING.    175 
VI. 

Oh  !  will  they  for  ever  pursue  me, 

Like  vultures  pursuing  their  prey? 
For  ever  still  strive  to  undo  me, 

Whatever  of  them  I  may  say  ? 
Ah,  yes  !  they  will  seek  to  defame  me, 

Much  rather  than  cherish  and  love  ; 
And,  sooner  than  praise,  they  would  blame  me, 

However  to  them  I  might  prove. 

VII. 

My  faults  !  —  well,  I  know  they  are  man}-, 

And  deeply  I  mourn  for  them  all ; 
Yet,  though  I  had  never  shown  any, 

Not  less  would  they  strive  for  my  fall. 
Oh  !  would  they  but  search  with  slight  labor, 

Some  errors  at  home  might  be  seen  ; 
But  "  the  mote  "  in  the  eye  of  our  neighbor 

Hides  always  in  ours  "  the  beam."  l 

VIII. 

But  let  them  war  on  at  their  pleasure, 

The  many  pursuing  the  one  ! 
For  God,  in  His  justice,  will  measure 

The  right  and  the  wrong  that  is  done  ; 

1  "  And  why  beholdest  thou  the  mote  that  is  in  thy  brother's  eye, 
but  considerest  not  the  beam  that  is  in  thine  own  eye? 

"  Or  how  wilt  thou  say  to  thy  brother,  Let  me  pull  out  the  mote  out 
of  thine  eye;  and  behold  a  beam  is  in  thine  own  eye? 

"  Thou  hypocrite,  first  cast  out  the  beam  out  of  thine  own  eye,  and 
then  shall  thou  see  clearly  to  cast  out  the  mote  out  of  thy  brother's  eye." 

Matt.  vii.  3-5. 


176    THE  HEART  THAT  IN  SILENCE  IS  BREAKING. 

Yes,  God,  in  His  wisdom,  is  making 
A  note  of  each  sparrow's  sad  fall ; J 

And  the  heart  that  in  silence  is  breaking 
May  win  as  much  mercy  as  all ! 

1  "  Are  not  two  sparrows  sold  for  a  farthing?  and  one  of  them  shall 
not  fall  on  the  ground  without  your  Father. 

"Fear  ye  not  therefore,  ye  are  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows." 

Matt.  x.  29-31. 
"  There  is  a  special  providence  in  the  fall  of  a  sparrow." 

Hamlet,  Act  v.  Scene  2. 


TO  MISS  . 

ON   RECEIVING    HER    PICTURE. 
I. 

Tins  little  casket,  rich  and  rare, 
With  girlish  face  so  sweet  and  fair, 
To  me  is  sweeter,  dearer  far 
Than  queenly  pride  and  jewels  are. 


ii. 

Yet  take  it  back  !  it  gives  deep  pain 
To  my  sad  heart  and  throbbing  brain  ; 
For,  while  I  gaze,  I  sadly  feel 
The  change  that  time  must  there  reveal. 


in. 

Oh  !  couldst  thou  linger  as  thou  art, 
With  girlish  face  and  girlish  heart, 
Just  on  the  verge  of  womanhood, 
Where  ever}'  withered  dame  once  stood, 

177 


178  TO    MISS 


Then  would  I  hail  thee  as  divine  ; 
Then  would  I  clasp  and  keep  thee  mine  : 
Not  all  the  powers  of  earth  should  tear 
From  my  embrace  a  gift  so  rare. 

v. 

And  thy  fair  tresses,  unconfined, 
Now  waving  in  the  summer  wind, 
Strong  chains  and  fetters  then  should  be 
To  bind  my  loving  soul  to  thee. 

VI. 

Oh,  that  some  god  the  gift  would  give 
To  bid  tlry  girlish  beaut}'  live  ! 
It  may  not  be  :  Time  wings  his  flight ; 
Thy  day  is  waning  into  night. 

VII. 

For  amulet  of  safet}',  bind 
Thy  soul  to  knowledge  !  store  thy  mind 
With  sages'  songs  that  bards  sublime 
Chant  to  us  from  the  olden  time  ! 

VIII. 

Then,  when  thy  summer  days  are  past, 
And  tlrv  heart  feels  the  chilling  blast 
Of  age's  winter,  they  shall  be 
Sources  of  deepest  joy  to  thee. 


TO  MISS  .  179 

IX. 

And  I  for  amulet  will  wear 
This  fair,  sweet  face  with  flowing  hair, 
Bound  to  my  heart  in  every  clime, 
Through  every  change  of  place  and  time. 

x. 

Happy  that  I  may  ne'er  behold 
Thy  sweet  smile  fade,  thy  face  grow  old, 
But  e'er  remember  thee  thus  fair 
With  girlish  face  and  flowing  hair. 


STANZAS. 

TO   MISS   . 

I. 

Wirr  wilt  them  wound  the  heart  that  loved  thee  so? 
Why  bring  upon  it  all  this  bitter  woe  ? 
Why  grieve  the  heart  whose  every  thought  for  thee 
Was  love  and  tenderness  and  constancy? 

n. 

The  da}'  may  come  when  thou,  in  turn,  shalt  know 
The  bitter  pangs  of  an  enduring  woe, 
When  thou  for  one  heart's  truthful  love  wilt  pine, 
Such  as  thou  knewest  in  the  olden  time. 

in. 

When  that  day  comes,  oh,  sometimes  think  of  me  ! 
Think  of  my  heart's  deep,  earnest  love  for  thee  ; 
Think  of  the  olden  and  the  happy  time 
When  I  was  all  to  thee,  —  when  thou  wert  mine. 


Then  in  thy  heart  there  may  arise  a  pain, 
A  secret  wish  that  I  may  come  again,  — 
May  yet  i-eturn  in  truthfulness  to  thee 
From  my  long  pilgrimage  beyond  the  sea. 

180 


ETHEL   GREY. 

(Fragment  from  an  Unpublished  Poem.) 

OH  !  many  a  weary  year  ago  — 
How  man}'  I  dare  not  say  — 

A  maiden  lived,  whom  you  may  know 
By  the  name  of  Ethel  Gre}'. 

But  where  her  home,  and  who  her  love, 

It  suits  me  not  to  sa}' ; 
For  she  is  now  in  heaven  above, 

And  he  is  far  away. 

Enough,  to  know  they  lived  and  loved, 

And  ne'er  can  love  again  ; 
Enough,  to  know  one  faithless  proved, 

And  one  now  bears  the  pain. 


In  the  churchyard,  far  awaj*, 
Sleeps  the  form  of  Ethel  Grey ; 
There,  beneath  the  cold  gray  stone, 
In  cold  sleep  she  slecpeth  on. 

181 


182  ETHEL    GREY. 

With  her  pale  hands,  o'er  her  breast, 
Folded  in  their  final  rest, 
Underneath  the  spreading  tree, 
In  her  last  sleep,  sleepeth  she. 

Through  the  branches  all  the  day 
Flecks  of  golden  sunlight  stray  ; 
And  her  silent,  simple  grave 
In  their  golden  beauty  bathe. 

Through  the  sad  night's  silent  hours 
Moonbeams  pale  incrtist  the  flowers, 
Which,  upon  her  little  grave, 
In  the  winds  of  summer  wave. 


Thus,  while  years  steal  on  apace, 
Rests  she  in  her  resting-place  ; 
Moldering  in  the  solemn  tomb, 
Waiting  there  the  trump  of  doom, 


Which  shall  break  her  silent  sleep, 
Calling  her  to  wake  and  weep, 
Where  all  truths  are  open  laid 
For  betrayer  and  betrayed,  — 


ETHEL   GREY.  183 

There  to  meet  the  certain  doom 
Waiting  all  beyond  the  tomb, 
There  to  bow  beneath  the  rod 
Of  a  just,  all-seeing  God. 


Reader,  ponder  well,  and  be 
Thy  heart  from  all  guile  kept  free  ! 
And,  when  tempted  to  betray, 
Pause,  and  think  of  Ethel  Grey  ! 


THE   POWER  OF   SONG. 

TO    . 

I. 

THE  power  of  song  within  me  lies,  — 

The  godlike  power  of  song  ! 
And  I  will  wake  its  symphonies 

As  time  shall  roll  along  ; 
I'll  wake  a  strain  to  reach  thine  ear, 
Which,  wondering,  thou  shalt  turn  to  hear. 

ii. 
And  immortality  —  in  song  — 

The  boon  I  thee  will  give  ! 
For,  by  thy  name  twined  in  my  song. 

Tin1  memory  shall  live  ! 
And  millions  yet  unborn  shall  see 
The  story  of  my  love  for  thee. 

in. 
And  when  long  weary  years  shall  roll 

Sadly  o'er  thee  and  me, 
And  the  bright  visions  of  thy  soul 

Have  faded  mournfully, 
Then  o'er  our  past  turn  back  thine  eye, 
And  owe  me  immortality  ! 
184 


THE   FRIARS   GRAY. 


I  ENTY  them,  those  friars  gray ! 
They  rose  at  earliest  dawn  of  day, 
And,  with  their  holy  matin-song, 
Ushered  the  new-born  day  along. 


And  then,  in  cloisters  quaint  and  gray, 
Mused  the  long  summer  hours  away, 
Till,  with  the  setting  sun  of  even, 
The  holy  vesper-song  was  given. 

in. 

Then,  for  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
The  midnight  Mass  was  sung  or  said  ; 
While  tapers,  burning  faint  and  low, 
Scarce  served  the  sleeping  dead  to  show. 

IV. 

Thus  passed  their  solemn  lives  away 
In  old  cathedrals  quaint  and  gray, 

185 


186  THE  FRIARS   GRAY. 

Like  hermits  in  a  living  tomb, 

Where  dead  and  living  both  find  room. 

v. 

And  thus  would  I  avoid  the  strife 
And  turmoil  of  this  weary  life, 
And  in  the  cloisters,  quaint  and  gray, 
Would  muse  and  meditate  and  pray,  — 

VI. 

Where  pride  and  fashion  ne'er  could  conic 
To  wound  me  in  my  solemn  home, 
And  wild  ambition  never  there 
Could  mingle  with  my  humble  prayer. 

VII. 

And  there  the  glance  of  Beauty's  eye, 
Disarmed,  should  harmless  pass  me  by, 
And  Beaut}"' s  glowing  form  should  be 
For  evermore  as  dead  to  me. 

VIII. 

Thus  living,  I  prepared  might  be 

To  hail  "  that  day  of  wrath  "  with  glee,  — 

"  Dies  irce,  dies  ilia 

Solvet  scedum  in  favilla." 


THE  MORNING  WALK. 

'Tis  sweet  the  towering  hill  to  climb 
In  the  fresh  glow  of  morning  prime, 
And  sweet  the  haunts  of  men  to  leave, 
Nature's  untainted  breath  to  breathe, 
And  seek  the  vocal  woodlands  wide 
Where  Nature  glows  in  pristine  pride. 
I  love  some  sylvan  haunt  to  tread 
Where  the  broad  branches  overhead 
Stretch  their  weird  arms  'twixt  heaven  and  me, 
And  clap  their  hands  in  leafy  glee, 
While  3'et  the  dew  is  on  the  grass 
Sparkling  like  diamonds  as  I  pass  ; 
And,  while  I  muse  in  woodland  vale, 
I  love  to  hear  the  plaintive  tale 
Of  gentle  thrush  and  blackbird  gay 
In  unpremeditated  lay 
Pouring,  in  sweetest  strains  of  love, 
Their  grateful  praise  to  God  above,  — 
A  purer  and  a  sweeter  praise 
Than  sinful  man  can  CArer  raise. 
And  here,  on  many  a  morn  of  spring, 
I've  roamed  to  hear  the  sweet  birds  sing, 

187 


188  THE  MORNING    WALK. 

And  listened  to  the  mellow  note 

Poured  from  the  bluebird's  muffled  throat, 

And  found  in  Nature's  woodlands  wild 

Companionship  for  Nature's  child  ; 

And  here,  on  many  a  summer  eve, 

I've  loitered,  loath  to  take  my  leave, 

While  night's  dark  shades  of  deepened  gloom 

Have  wrapped  me  in  a  living  tomb, 

Till  through  mysterious,  endless  space 

God's  wondrous  stars  stood  forth  in  place, 

Drawing  the  heart  and  soul  and  ej-e 

From  things  below  to  One  on  high. 


THE   EVENING  WALK. 


N  the  great  sun  in  golden  glow 
On  purple  couch  is  sinking  low, 
And,  through  the  quivering  heats  of  day, 
The  western  breezes  softh*  play, 
'Tis  sweet  the  stifled  town  to  leave, 
The  cooling  woodland  airs  to  breathe, 
And,  with  some  fair  one  by  our  side, 
To  roam  the  country  far  and  wide. 
'Tis  sweet  the  wayside  fence  to  climb, 
To  pluck  the  rose  and  eglantine, 
And  bear  them  to  our  waiting  fair, 
And  twine  them  with  her  raven  hair, 
And  watch  the  tender,  love-lit  smile 
That  lights  her  heavenly  face  the  while. 
And  if  some  envious,  wicked  thorn 
The  hand  which  culled  the  flower  hath  torn, 
With  pin,  drawn  forth  from  graceful  robe, 
All  tenderly  the  wound  she'll  probe  ; 
And,  though  the  wound  may  smart  with  pain, 
We  can  but  wish  it  probed  again  : 
For  ne'er  was  "  balm  of  Gilead  "  found 
Like  her  soft  touch  for  throbbing  wound. 

189 


190  THE  EVENING    WALK. 

Let  cynics  smile,  and  toss  the  head, 
Because  with  them  all  love  is  dead  ; 
But  never  }*et  beat  manly  heart 
Where  woman  could  not  claim  a  part, 
And  Eden's  garden  was  but  sad 
Till  woman  came  to  make  it  glad. 
So  let  cold  critics  say  their  sa}', 
While  we,  with  sweet  love,  live  our  day, 
And,  with  our  fair  one  by  our  side, 
Roam  the  green  fields  at  eventide  ; 
And  cull  the  rose  and  eglantine, 
With  her  fair,  flowing  locks  to  twine  ; 
And  feel  the  smart  from  envious  thorn, 
And  solace  by  her  soft  touch  borne  ; 
And  drink  rich  draughts  of  love  and  pain 
Through  hours  which  ne'er  may  come  again 
While  on  Love's  altars,  freely  laid, 
Youth's  untold  wealth  of  love  is  paid ! 


THE   BROKEN  VOW.1 

"  Rammentati !  ne  stringe  il  cielo  !  e  amor." 


BY  the  oaths  that  once  were  plighted 
In  the  sight  of  God  above  ; 

By  the  hopes  that  once  were  lighted 
By  the  promises  of  love  ;  — 

n. 

By  the  God  who  reigns  above  thee  ; 

By  the  heaven  we  hope  to  gain  ; 
By  the  demons  who  could  move  thee 

To  thy  perjury  and  shame  ;  — 

in. 

Can  thy  unkept  vows  betoken 
Aught  of  peace  to  thee  or  me? 

Doth  thine  oath  in  heaven,  broken, 
Promise  future  bliss  to  thee? 


1  First  published  in  the  Daily  Evening  Traveller. 

191 


192  THE  BROKEN    VOW. 


Oh  !  from  out  the  past  a  starker 
Phantom-form  shall  soon  appear, 

And  ever  o'er  thy  heart  a  darker 
Shadow  bend  from  year  to  year  ! 

v. 

For  thy  heart  yet  holds  a  treasure, 
Hoarded  by  thy  willing  will.  — 

Memories  of  each  by-gone  pleasure, 
Memories  thou  canst  not  kill. 

VI. 

And  the  Past,  yet  in  a  deeper 

Prophet's  tones,  shall  speak  to  thee, 

Awaking  in  th}'  heart  a  sleeper 
Who  will  whisper  oft  of  me. 

VII. 

And  th}-  broken  oaths  shall  bend  thee 
To  thy  tomb  with  magic  power ; 

And  the  future  ne'er  shall  lend  thee 
Hope  or  solace  iu  that  hour. 

VIII. 

But  the  past  shall  ever  send  thee 
Tokens  of  thy  broken  vow  ; 

And  the  few,  who  now  commend  thee, 
Shall  prove  false,  as  thou  art  now. 


SONG:  I'LL   DREAM  OF   THEE. 

(Lines  for  Music.) 
I. 

I'LL  dream,  I'll  dream  of  thee,  love  ; 

I'll  dream  we  ne'er  had  met, 
Or,  having  been  with  thee,  love, 

We  were  not  parted  yet. 


ii. 

I'll  clasp  within  my  arms,  love, 
Thy  fancied  form  so  fair, 

And  gaze  upon  thy  charms,  love, 
Till  vanished  into  air. 


And  then  I'll  weep  for  thee,  love  ; 

When  waking  from  that  dream 
Thy  fanciecl  form  shall  flee,  love, 

With  morning's  early  beam. 

193 


194  SONG:    rLL   DREAM    OF  THEE. 

IV. 

I'll  curse  returning  day,  love, 
That  steals  thee  from  my  arms, 

And  for  the  midnight  pray,  love, 
And  thy  returning  charms. 

v. 

And  if  the  years  should  roll,  love. 

And  we  ne'er  meet  again, 
Oh,  then  my  very  soul,  love, 

Will  sink  in  endless  pain  ! 


And  I  shall  never  cease,  love, 
To  weep  and  pray  for  thee, 

Until,  in  endless  peace,  love, 
Our  spirits  joined  shall  be. 


STANZAS. 


ERE  the  passing  da}-  is  done, 
Ere  goes  down  the  evening  sun, 
Ere  that  sun  shall  rise  again, 
I  shall  be  upon  the  main  ; 
But,  though  now  from  thee  I  flee, 
Shall  my  spirit  be  with  thee  ; 
And  in  future  thou  shalt  feel 
What  thy  heart  would  not  reveal. 


n. 

For,  when  moonbeams  cold  and  still 
Sleep  on  meadow,  lake,  and  hill, 
And  when  evening  breezes  play, 
Strangely  soft,  their  evening  lay, 
Then  a  weird  and  mystic  spell 
Shall  upon  thy  spirit  dwell ; 
And  thou  shalt  in  sorrow  feel 
What  th}*  heart  would  not  reveal. 

195 


196  STANZAS. 

III. 

And  when  Pleasure's  cup  is  full, 
And  thy  heart  with  pride  doth  swell,  — 
When,  in  mazy  dance  and  song, 
Thou  art  worshiped  by  the  throng,  — 
Then,  within  thy  heart  and  brain, 
Thou  shalt  feel  a  secret  pain  ; 
And,  from  halls  where  pleasures  keep, 
Thou  wilt  turn  away  to  weep. 

IV. 

In  the  calm  and  in  the  storm, 
In  the  night  and  in  the  morn, 
And  at  twilight's  holy  hour, 
Thou  shalt  feel  my  spirit's  power ; 
And,  when  memories  of  the  past 
On  th}T  brain  come  crowding  fast, 
Then  thou  ma}'st  in  sorrow  know 
'Twas  not  well  to  give  the  blow. 

v. 

For  a  strange  and  secret  dread 
E'er  shall  linger  round  thy  bed  ; 
And,  when  in  thy  troubled  sleep 
Thou  dost  start  and  wake  and  weep, 
Then,  at  midnight's  dreaded  hour, 
Thou  shalt  own  my  spirit's  power  ; 
And  the  sorrow  thou  wilt  feel 
Shall  a  hidden  truth  reveal. 


STANZAS.  197 

VI. 

Thou  slialt  find,  }Tct  find  too  late, 
That  thy  heart  is  desolate  ; 
Thou  shalt  know,  yet  know  in  vain, 
That  thou  canst  not  love  again  ; 
And  this  deep  and  hidden  spell 
E'er  shall  on  thy  spirit  dwell ; 
And  the  future,  that  must  be, 
Ne'er  can  bring  relief  to  thee. 

VII. 

Thus  a  spirit  of  the  past 

Shall  teach  thee  thine  own  heart  at  last, 

And  in  madness  thou  shalt  dare 

Demons  in  fantastic  prayer  ; 

But  an  arm  thou  canst  not  see 

Ever  shall  encircle  thee  ; 

And  a  praj*er,  b}*  thee  unheard, 

E'er  shall  plead  for  thee  with  God. 


MY  BARK  ROCKS  IN  THE  BAY  BELOW. 


When  on  the  eve  of  setting  sail  for  Europe,  the  author  addressed  the 
following  lines  to  his  youthful  friend,  Henry  P.  Leland  of  Philadelphia, 
—  a  younger  brother  of  the  poet,  Charles  Q-.  Leland,  —  a  young  gentle 
man  of  the  rarest  attainments,  whose  early  years  gave  promise  of  a 
future  success  which  might  even  rival  the  growing  fame  of  his  gifted 
brother;  but,  by  some  unaccountable  dispensation  of  Providence,  his 
brilliant  mind  became  early  overclouded,  and  almost  in  the  freshness  of 
youth  he  was  called  away  "  to  that  undiscovered  country  from  whose 
bourne  no  traveler  returns." 


MY  bark  rocks  in  the  bay  below  ; 

The  winds  blow  gently  off  the  shore : 
But,  Leland,  ere  from  thee  I  go, 

Let's  quaff  a  social  glass  once  more. 


n. 


Then  I  am  off  to  other  climes  ; 

And  many  a  year,  I  ween,  will  pass 
Ere  I  with  thee  renew  these  times, 

Or  drink  with  thee  a  social  glass. 

198 


MY  BARK  ROCKS  IN   THE   BAY  BELOW.      199 

III. 

So  fill  once  more  the  flowing  bowl, 

And  here  —  our  parting  faith  to  prove  — 

Come,  pledge  me  with  thy  heart  and  soul : 
Our  toast  is  Woman,  wine,  and  love. 


Be  woman's  smiles  for  ever  thine,  — 
Smiles  bright  as  those  of  saints  above  ! 

Be  thy  cup  filled  with  richest  wine  ! 
Be  thy  heart  bound  in  chains  of  love  ! 


v. 

Whatever  Fate  may  deal  to  me, 
Where'er  my  unloved  life  may  end, 
}T  God  in  mere}-  prosper  thee  ! 
May  happiness  thy  life  attend  ! 


VI. 

But  sometimes,  when  thy  cup  of  life 
Runs  o'er  with  ever}'  earthly  bliss, 

One  moment  turn  from  friend  or  wife, 
And  from  that  hour  think  back  to  this. 


200       MY  BARK  ROCKS  IN   THE  BAY  BELOW. 


VII. 


Think  of  the  hours  when  thou  and  I 

In  boyish  years  wove  day-dreams  bright ; 

Think  of  our  past  with  constant  sigh, 
Think  of  our  parting  here  to-night ! 


vm. 


And,  if  one  tear-drop  in  thine  eye 
Trembles  at  thought  of  days  of  yore, 

Then,  if  to  me  thou  giv'st  one  sigh, 
I  ask  no  more  !  I  ask  no  more  ! 


IX. 


So  fare  thee  well !  and,  while  I  roam 
Apart  from  thee  in  foreign  clime, 

I'll  ever  think  of  those  at  home, 
And  ever  drink  to  thee  and  thine. 


MUSINGS. 

WHEN  the  hours  of  day  are  gone, 
And  the  evening  shades  come  on, 
To  night's  thoughtful  hours  I  go, 
Musing  o'er  this  life  of  woe  ; 
And,  within  my  room  alone, 
Listening  to  the  night-wind's  moan, 
As  the  wintry  storm  sweeps  by 
Blotting  moon  and  stars  from  sky, 
Thoughtfully  I  sit  and  gaze 
At  the  cheerful  fire's  blaze, 
And  the  ghostlike  shadows  tall 
Flitting  round  upon  the  wall ; 
Watch  them  come  and  go  again, 
Like  the  phantoms  of  the  brain, 
With  their  muffled  feet  beneath, 
Like  the  witches  of  the  heath. 
Sitting  thus  in  dreamy  mood, 
Musing  o'er  the  bad  and  good 
That  befell  me  from  the  time 
I  started  in  my  boyhood's  prime,— 
Pursuing  all  the  wildest  schemes 
Ever  dreamt  in  madcap's  dreams,  — 

201 


202  MUSINGS. 

Now  I  view  with  little  joy 
What  so  pleased  me  when  a  boy ; 
For  bright  visions  all  are  gone 
With  our  manhood's  early  dawn, 
And  we  mourn  our  boyhood  spent 
In  a  world  of  discontent. 
Tilings  that  unto  boyhood  seem 
Brilliant  as  a  fairy  dream 
Fade  with  manhood's  dawn  aw  a}' ; 
Golden  morning  turns  to  gray  ! 
Life  itself  is  but  a  dream  : 
Things  are  never  what  the}-  seem, 
Unsubstantial  phantoms  all, 
Like  these  shadows  on  the  wall. 


TO   ANNA, 

WITH    A   COPY   OF   LONGFELLOW'S    "  VOICES   OF    THE 
NIGHT." 


This  accomplished  young  lady  —  afterwards  the  wife  of  a  gentleman 
now  eminent  as  judge  of  a  court  of  the  United  States — was  early  sung 
(by  "  angel  voices  ")  to  her  final  rest. 


ACCEPT  the  gift 

Which  in  all  kindness  unto  thee  I  send,    ' 
And  deem  it  sent  thee  by  thy  truest  friend  ; 

And  may  it  lift 

Thy  spirit  up  from  earth  and  earthly  things 
To  soar  in  lands  of  song  on  Fancy's  wings  ! 


ii. 


And  ma}*  it  be 

Ever  a  source  of  hidden  joy  to  thee, 
Lighting  thy  pathwa}'  to  that  boundless  sea, 

The  grave,  when  lie 

Who  in  his  boyhood  gave  it  is  no  more, 
Or  wanders  friendless  on  some  foreign  shore. 

203 


204  TO  ANNA. 

III. 

Oh,  maj-  "  the  voices  " 
Speak  unto  thee  in  murmurs  soft  and  low, 
Soothing  with  gentle  tones  thy  hours  of  woe  ! 

And  when  rejoices 

Thy  heart  with  hidden  joy,  ma}*  the}'  then  be 
"  Familiar  voices  "  of  calm  joy  to  thee  ! 

rv. 

And  when  long  years 

Have  cast  their  shadows  on  thy  heart's  decay, 
And  friends  of  youth  have  sadly  passed  away, 

May  bitter  tears 

Be  strangers  to  thee,  and  this  friend  remain 
To  sing  to  thee  an  old  familiar  strain  ! 


v. 

But  when  at  last 

The  heart  grows  sear  with  grief,  and  all  is  gone, 
And  Death  walks  sternly  in  to  claim  his  own, 

Oh,  may  the  Past 

Look  smilingly  upon  thee,  and  at  last 
May  "  angel  voices  "  sing  thee  to  thy  rest ! 


THE   APOLOGY. 


TO    SAUAH   D- 


The  very  estimable  young  lady  to  whom  these  lines  were  addressed 
fell  an  early  victim  —  as  did  also  a  younger  sister  —  to  that  scourge  of 
our  New  England  climate,  consumption;  leaving  one  older  sister,  now 
the  accomplished  wife  of  an  ex-governor  of  the  Commonwealth,  to 
mourn  their  untimely  loss. 


FORGIVE  me,  Sarah,  if,  when  last  we  met, 
My  tones  were  altered,  or  my  looks  unkind  ; 

'Twas  melancholy's  curse  on  my  soul  set, 
The  curse  of  sorrow  on  my  shadowy  mind. 


n. 

For  I  have  suffered  wrongs,  deep,  nnforgiven ; 

Have  seen  each  loved  one  coldly  turn  away, 
Had  young  hopes    blighted    and  young  friendships 
riven,  — 

Friendship !  even  ours  was  well-nigh  lied  away. 

205 


206  THE  APOLOGY. 


O'er  things  like  these  the  soul  will  darkly  brood, 
And  melancholy  then  steals  o'er  the  heart ; 

And  often  in  ni}'  wildest,  mirthful  mood, 

These  thoughts  come  o'er  me,  and  all  joys  depart. 

IV. 

But  unto  thee  I  bear  no  thought  unkind  ; 

Far  from  unkind,  the  looks  which  thee  I  give  : 
Thy  form  hath  long  been  imaged  in  my  mind,  — 

Forgive  these  few  words,  Sarah  dear,  forgive. 


v. 

Oh,  have  I  ever  given  thy  bosom  pain, 

Or  caused  thee  e'er  one  sorrowing  tear  to  know. 

'Twill  bow  my  saddened  soul  with  hidden  pain, 
And  fill  too  full  the  measure  of  1113-  woe. 


GIVE  ME   BACK  MY  BREAKING  HEART. 

TO    OPHELIA.1 

"  Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  blindly, 
Never  met  —  or  never  parted, 
"VVe  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted." 

BURNS. 


LADY,  ere  the  tie  we  sever 
(Which  I  ween  should  bind  for  ever), 
Ere  that  tie  thou  darest  to  break, 
Hear  the  last  request  I  make  : 

1  The  real  name  of  this  young  lady  was  not  Ophelia;  but  we  often 
called  her  so,  in  view  of  her  unhappy  destiny.  The  daughter  of  an  emi 
nent  Xew  England  clergyman,  —  young,  handsome,  and  accomplished, — 
she  had  been  affianced,  against  her  expressed  wishes,  through  the  de 
termined  persuasion  of  a  stern  father,  to  a  man  (also  a  clergyman)  far 
older  than  herself,  and  of  a  stern  and  unbending  disposition,  without 
either  personal  attractions  or  mental  congeniality  to  draw  her  towards 
him.  And  under  these  circumstances  we  first  met  at  the  house  of, 
mutual  friends,  while  she  was  passing  the  last  summer  of  her  freedom 
in  the  country;  and  where  both  were  young,  —  for  neither  had  then  seen 
twenty  years,  — and  one  was  beautiful,  it  was  not  strange  that  a  warm, 
though  juvenile,  attachment  soon  grew  up,  which,  at  the  hour  of  parting, 
gave  occasion  for  the  foregoing  little  song.  It  need  hardly  be  said  that 
the  young  lady's  married  life  with  the  husband  of  her  father's  choice 
was  not  of  the  happiest,  and  has  since  been  one  of  strange  vicissitudes. 

207 


208       GIVE  ME  BACK  MY  BREAKING   HEART. 

If  them  wouldst  not  give  me  sorrow 
Which  can  know  no  peace  of  morrow, 
Then,  "  ftvyre  laciye,"  ere  we  part, 
Give  me  back  my  breaking  heart ! 


n. 


B}*  the  powers  which  are  above  me, 
"  Gentle  ladye,"  I  have  loved  thee, 
And  my  love  was  pure  for  thee, 
From  all  shade  of  passion  free  ; 
But  the  Fates  now  do  us  sever,  — 
Parted  we  must  be  for  ever  : 
Go  thou  to  him  of  whom  they  speak  ; 
I  go,  forgetfulness  to  seek. 


I  know  him  not  of  whom  they  tell ; 
He  may  not  love  thee  half  as  well : 
His  love,  as  brother's,  true  ma}'  be, 
That,  ten  times  told,  is  mine  for  thee  ! 
But  let  it  pass  ;  I  wish  thee  joy, 
Nor  with  my  presence  will  anno}' ; 
And,  since  th}r  love  was  not  for  me, 
M.y  prayer  may  be  for  him  and  thee. 


GIVE   ME  BACK   M7  BREAKING  HEART.       209 
IV. 

'Twould  soothe  to  press  that  lip  of  thine 
In  fondness  once  again  to  mine. 
And  take  one  painful,  parting  view, 
And  breathe  to  thee  one  fond  adieu  ; 
But  I  must  strive,  although  in  vain, 
Never  to  think  of  thee  again, 
And  wander  far  from  thee  —  alone  : 
I'm  going,  "  fayre  one  !  "  I  am  gone. 


TO  MARY,   DEPARTED. 

LINES    ON    THE    DEATH    OF   A   YOUTHFUL    COMPANION. 

(From  Juvenile  Poems.) 

I. 
ALAS,  thou  art  gone  where  the  cold  grave  doth  bind 

thee, 
And  the  cold  arms  of  Death  now   encircle    thee 

round ! 

While  the  friends  of  thy  youth,  left  in  sorrow  be 
hind  thee, 
Are  mourning  for  Mary  now  cold  in  the  ground. 

n. 

The  pride  of  the  village  in  which  thou  didst  dwell, 
While  the  few  years  sped  by  that  were  given  thee 
here, — 

All  the  villagers  long  will  remember  thee  well, 
And  give  to  thy  memory  many  a  tear. 

in. 
Oh,  why  did  the  cold  hand  of  Death  touch  a  flower 

That  bloomed  in  the  garden  of  Nature  so  fair? 
Could  not  man's  invention,  his  prayers,  or  his  power 

Compel  the  grim  monster  the  treasure  to  spare  ? 

210 


TO  MARY,   DEPARTED.  211 

IV. 

Ah,  no  !  all  that  poor  mortal  man  could  accomplish 
To  nourish  and  cherish  that  flower,  he  did ; 

And  yet  its  fair  form  did  the  tyrant  demolish,  — 
It  was  not  for  mortals  the  deed  to  forbid. 

v. 

Alas,  thou  art  gone  !  and  the  green  turf  above  thee 

Lies  cold  on  the  bosom  that  once  was  so  fair, 
And  the  friends  of  thy  }"outh  who  so  fondly  did  love 

thee 
Lean  over  thy  young  grave,  and  weep  in  despair. 

VI. 

But  neither  their  prayers  nor  their  tears  can  recall 

thee : 
Thou  hast  gone  to  that  land  from  whence  none 

can  return  ; 
And  morning  and  eve,  when  in  fondness  they  call 

thee, 
The  echo  will  answer,  "  She  sleeps  'neaththeurn." 

VII. 

And,  oh  !  never  again,  round  the  hearthstone  at  eve, 
Can  her  bright,  sunny  smiles  lend  their  influence 
there  ; 

For  she  from  among  you  has  taken  her  leave, 

And  ye  ne'er  can  behold  more  that  maiden  so  fair. 


212  TO   MARY,    DEPARTED. 

VIII. 

When  years  have  rolled  by,  and  by  some  she's  for 
got, — 
Though   few  who  e'er  saw  will   forget  that   fair 

maid,  — 

Then  the  villagers  ever  will  point  out  the  spot 
Where  Mary,  the  pride  of  their  village,  was  laid. 


Alas,  fare  thee  well !  for  we  ne'er  more  can  meet, 
And  I  never  again  can  behold  thy  sweet  face  ; 

But  thy  mem'ry  will  long  in  my  heart  hold  its  seat : 
Until  time  is  no  more  it  will  there  have  a  place. 


OH,   ASK  ME  NOT  WHEN  I   AM   SAD  ! 

(From  Juvenile  Poems.) 


OH,  ask  me  not,  when  I  am  sad, 
Why  care  sits  heavy  on  my  brow  ! 

Oh,  ask  me  not,  when  I  am  glad, 
What  pleasures  light  my  spirit  now  ! 

n. 

For  I  have  thoughts  thou  canst  not  know  ; 

Have  griefs  e'en  thou  must  fail  to  share ; 
Have  hours  of  bliss  and  hours  of  woe,  — 

Dark  hours  of  thought  and  anxious  care. 


in. 


And  often  in  my  wildest  mood, 
Back  to  m}*  heart  and  to  my  brain, 

When  dance  and  song  go  gayly  round, 
Dark  thoughts  come  flowing  back  again. 

213 


214         OH,   ASK  ME  NOT   WHEN  I  AM  SAD! 


IV. 


So  ask  me  not,  when  I  am  sad, 
Why  care  sits  heavy  on  my  brow  ; 

And  ask  me  not,  when  I  am  glad, 
What  pleasures  light  my  spirit  now. 


v. 


For  thy  young  heart  could  never  bear 
The  woes  which  earl}*  come  to  me  ; 

But  thou  wilt  teach  my  lip  to  wear 
A  smile  if  I  am  dear  to  thee. 


FAREWELL  TO   MY  LITTLE   SCHOOLMATE. 

(From  Juvenile  Poems.) 

I. 

FAREWELL  !  and,  if  it  be  decreed 

That  we  for  ever  part, 
Accept  a  blessing  ere  thou  goest 

From  my  sad,  aching  heart. 


ii. 

When  thou  art  gone,  and  I  alone 
At  evening  o'er  the  lea 

Shall  wander  forth,  as  oft  before 
I've  sported  there  with  thee,  — 


m. 

Remembrance  then  will  start  a  tear : 
That  tear  will  flow  for  thee. 

Oh  !  will  those  melting  eyes  of  thine 
E'er  shed  one  tear  for  me? 

215 


216      FAREWELL   TO  MY  LITTLE  SCHOOLMATE. 


IV. 


Ay,  fare  thee  well !  but,  ere  thou  goest 
With  dearer  friends  to  dwell, 

Accept  a  blessing  from  the  lips 

Which,  quivering,  say,  "  Farewell !  " 


v. 


Older  heads,  perhaps,  would  tell  thee 
More  than  I  have  learned  to  speak  ; 

But  the  unspoken  truth  is  plainer 
On  my  burning,  boyish  cheek. 


VI. 


Oh  !  when  we  have  both  grown  older, 
When  our  school-days  all  are  o'er, 

Wilt  thou  sometimes,  then,  remember 
One  whom  thou  wilt  see  no  more  ? 


THE   SUMMER  DAYS   OF   '81. 


"Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  death  in  life !  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

TENNYSON. 

I. 

THE  summer  da^ys  of  '81 

Rolled  sweetly  by  for  thee  and  me, 
And  not  a  cloud  obscured  the  sun 

That  warmed  our  love  and  constancy  ; 
But  now  the  waning  year  proclaims 

Those  summer  days  for  ever  fled, 
And  the  hoarse  wind's  low,  mournful  strains 

Sound  like  sad  dirges  o'er  the  dead. 


The  golden-rod  beside  the  way 
Has  parted  with  its  brilliant  hue, 

And  dust}*  milkweed-pods  display 

Their  down  and  ripened  seeds  to  view  ; 

217 


218  THE  SUMMER  DAYS   OF  '81. 

And  autumn  crickets  load  the  air 
Of  evening  with  a  mournful  tone, 

And  where  the  summer  roses  were 
The  autumn  winds  are  making  moan. 


in. 

And  falling  leaves  and  faded  flowers 

Speak  sadly  to  my  boding  heart ; 
To  me  their  fate  presages  ours, 

When  thou  and  I  and  hope  must  part. 
I  know  the  coming  years  will  roll 

Often  with  darkly  clouded  sun, 
But  never  from  my  constant  soul 

Shall  fade  the  lights  of  '81. 


Thy  heart  can  never  know  the  pain 

Which  thrills  me  to  the  bosom's  core, 
When,  parting,  ne'er  to  meet  again, 

We  say  adieu  for  evermore  ! 
Dark  years  may  come  to  thee  and  me, 

And  hope  may  die  ere  life  is  done, 
But  ne'er  shall  fade  from  memory 

The  sunn}'  days  of  '81. 


TO   HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW, 

ON  HIS  SEVENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY. 

Astra  regunt  homines.'  sed  regit  astra  Deus  I 

The  following  poem  —  composed  to  celebrate  the  natal  day  of  New 
England's  greatest  poet  —  was  sent  to  Mr.  Longfellow  on  his  seventy -fifth 
birthday,  Feb.  27,  1882.  And,  although  the  writer  is  not  a  believer  in 
what  are  usually  called  presentiments,  yet,  in  truthfulness,  he  must  con 
fess,  that,  at  the  time  of  sending  it,  he  was  solemnly  impressed  with  the 
feeling  that  it  was  to  be  the  last  birthday  that  Mr.  Longfellow  was  ever 
to  pass.  And  in  view  of  the  fact  that  he  died  in  less  than  a  month  there 
after,  though  in  usual  health  on  his  last  birthday,  some  lines  in  the  poem 
would  seem  to  have  been  almost  prophetic  in  their  sad  foreshadowings. 

ANOTHER  !  ay,  another  year 
Rolls  o'er  thy  head,  O  Poet  dear  ! 
O  Poet !  dear  to  every  heart 
That  e'er  felt  thrill  of  poet's  art, 
And  doubly  dear  to  hearts  that  long 
Have  thrilled  in  echo  to  tlry  song,  — 
Thy  song  !  thy  many  songs  of  love, 
Which  float  around  us  and  above, 
Like  "  spirits  of  the  viewless  air," 
Shedding  their  hoi}*  influence  where 
The  fainting  souls  of  toiling  men, 
Cheered  by  their  voice,  take  heart  again. 

219 


220  TO  HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW. 

Thy  "  Psalm  of  Life  "  doth  strength  impart 
To  many  a  tried  and  troubled  heart, 
To  many  a  weary  foot  that  tries, 
In  vain,  b}*  patient  toil  to  rise,  — 
To  rise  and  clirnb  the  shining  way 
Which  thou  didst  tread  in  youthful  day. 

But  what  a  toilsome  road  they  find, 
When,  lacking  thy  majestic  mind, 
They  seek  to  climb  the  upward  way 
Where  thou  didst  soar  to  light  and  day  ! 
And  some,  who  thought  like  thee  to  soar, 
Sink  bjr  the  way  to  rise  no  more  ; 
Yet  few,  — oh,  very  few  indeed  !  — 
Still  toiling,  hope  for  better  meed, 
And,  taking  heart  from  thine  own  lay, 
Still  struggle  on  the  upward  way  ; 
And,  "  with  a  heart  for  any  fate," 
They  "  learn  to  labor  and  to  wait." 

To  such  thy  name  and  fame  are  dear ; 
And,  while  the}'  view  thee  }rear  by  year 
Throned  o'er  New  England's  realm  of  song, 
Pray  that  thy  years  be  lengthened  long,  — 
Yet,  praying,  listening,  ever  fear 
The  coming  death  dirge-notes  to  hear  ; 
For  well  we  know  that  time  sweeps  on, 
Like  "  the  storm-wind  Euroclydon," 


TO  HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW.  221 

And  with  a  power  of  mighty  force 
Bears  all  before  it  in  its  course. 
And  yet  we  pray  that  years  may  be 
In  plenty  still  bestowed  on  thee, 
And  that  for  many  a  year  we  may 
Still  hail  with  joy  thy  natal  day  ; 
Yet,  oh  !  there  ever  lingers  still 
A  doubt,  a  fear  of  coming  ill,  — 
A  fear  lest  the  sweet  dream  should  break, 
And  our  sad  souls  to  sorrow  wake,  — 
A  fear  lest  the  stern  "  reaper  "  come 
The  ripened  grain  to  garner  home. 

When  that  day  comes,  as  come  it  must, 

With  its  stern  fiat,  "  Dust  to  dust !  " 

When  thy  sun,  sinking  in  the  west, 

Shall  close  thy  day,  and  thou  shalt  rest,  — 

Oh,  what  a  direful,  woeful  day 

For  those  who  watch  its  setting  ray  ! 

And  what  a  wail  of  grief  shall  rise 

To  waft  thy  spirit  to  the  skies  ! 

And  what  a  cloud  of  woe  shall  bend 

O'er  all  when  thy  sweet  life  shall  end  ! 

Millions  of  sobs  will  then  combine 

To  mourn  thee,  —  none  more  deep  than  mine. 

New  England's  harp  will  sound  a  wail 
To  load  New  England's  every  gale  ! 


222  TO  HENRY   W.   LONGFELLOW. 

And  every  hill  and  every  vale 

Shall  echo  back  its  dying  wail ! 

And  hearts  shall  bow,  and  eyes  shall  weep, 

When  thy  loved  form  in  death  shall  sleep  ! 

The  Muse,  beholding  thee  expire, 

Shall  weep  above  her  broken  lyre  ! 

On  that  sad  day,  0  honored  friend  ! 

May  Christ's  calm  spirit  o'er  thee  bend  ! 

May  shining  angels  hover  near  ! 

May  angel- voices  whisper  cheer  ! 

And  ma}-  a  shining  angel-band 

Bear  thy  soul  to  that  "better  land,"  — 

That  "  better  land,"  we  know  not  where, 

Yet  hope  and  pray  to  meet  thee  there  ! 

And,  waiting,  hoping,  gaze  afar, 

And  pray  to  find  those  gates  ajar. 

"  Rex  tremendce  majestatis, 

Qui  salvandos  salvas  gratis, 

Salva  te !  fons  pietatis : ' ' 

Salva  te !    Rex  majestatis. 


WHEN   THE   POET   DIES. 


"And  the  Poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 

Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a  part 
Of  the  self-same,  universal  being 
Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart." 

LONGFELLOW. 


'Tis  said,  that,  when  the  Poet  dies, 

Great  Nature  mourns  her  gifted  child, 
And  Nature's  various  voices  rise 

In  solemn  requiem,  sweet  and  wild  ; 
And  that  the  Poet's  loved  abodes, 

His  sj'lvan  haunts  by  wood  and  stream, 
Are  vocal  with  wild  spirit-odes, 

Like  the  weird  music  of  a  dream. 


ii. 


That  dark,  sad  pines  on  hill-tops  lone, 
And  murmuring  brooks  in  valleys  deep, 

For  the  dead  Minstrel  sigh  and  moan, 
And  murmur  dirges  round  his  sleep  : 

223 


224  WHEN   THE  POET  DIES. 

The  low,  soft  winds,  in  mournful  sighs, 
Breathe  out  their  sorrows  o'er  his  head  ; 

And  sorrowing  tears,  from  cold,  gray  skies, 
Drop  down  upon  his  lowly  bed. 


The  brave  old  trees  that  stretched  their  arms 

To  shield  him  with  their  grateful  shade,  — 
Ah  !  who  shall  celebrate  their  charms 

When  their  loved  Bard  is  lowl}*  laid  ? 
When  their  green  leaves  —  all  sear  and  brown, 

And  whirling  in  the  "  dance  of  death  "  — 
To  the  cold  earth  go  sailing  clown, 

Scattered  by  autumn's  chilling  breath,  — 


IV. 


Oh  !  who  shall  celebrate  their  fall, 

And  sing  their  beauty,  as  they  fade, 
When  he  —  so  loved,  and  loving  all  — 

In  the  dark,  silent  tomb  is  laid? 
'Tis  meet  that  flowers  distill  their  tears, 

And  breathe  sweet  perfumes  round  the  tomb 
Of  the  loved  Bard,  who,  through  long  years, 

Has  sung  their  beauty  and  their  bloom. 


WHEN   THE  POET  DIES.  225 

V. 

'Tis  meet  the  wondrous-flaming  stars 

Shed  their  kind  influence  round  his  name  ; 
For  he,  with  all  a  Poet's  cares, 

lias  sung  of  their  mysterious  flame. 
O  child  of  Nature  !  son  of  song ! 

High  priest  in  Nature's  holy  fane  ! 
'Tis  meet  that  Nature's  voices  strong 

Should  echo  back  the  Poet's  name. 


Let  distant  thunder's  dying  groan 

Mourn  Nature's  gifted  child  of  song  ! 
Let  lightnings  blaze  from  zone  to  zone, 

To  light  his  fleeting  shade  along  ! 
And  let  great  Nature's  voices  raise 

One  mighty  anthem  —  deep  and  long  — 
To  celebrate,  with  Nature's  praise, 

Her  dying  Bard  !  her  son  of  song  ! 


27450 


